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My expression rehashes what we’d agreed upon in the trench, and his features hurl back the same declaration: It meant nothing.

So why are we dragging our feet?

The Solitaries scatter, bleeding into the wild, camouflaging themselves as they approach. I glimpse axes, hammers, staffs, knives, and bows. I catch the rustle of branches, an attempt to confuse the huntress.

Puck and I survey one another. Indeed, we’ve spent too much time together, because I feel him counting with me, as we did in the pit.

One. Two. Three.

We spring around in unison. I run, blasting through the underbrush, my boot soles pounding into the ground. A cursory glance over my shoulder verifies the satyr is dashing toward the Faeries, intending to rejoin them.

The foliage swallows him whole. His kin shout, their weapons clicking and twanging.

Axes hack into the creepers. Throwing stars spin like asterisks, one of the projectiles dicing through my skirt but missing flesh. Yet pain sears my chin as one of the stars finds its mark, shaving off a layer of skin. My limbs accelerate, flying through the trees.

They’ll scent me out, stalk my tracks. They’ll win this hunt, and I’ll lose my sisters.

Something punts into my quiver, the impact shoving me forward. I stagger into a walnut tree, a star blade tacking my cloak to the bark. I fist the material and yank, tearing the fabric, then make it three paces before a body crashes sideways into me. We smack onto the ground, the body landing on top and pinning my arms.

A marten tail swishes. Vivid orange irises glare down, and a row of teeth snap in my face. “Gotcha,” Tinder boasts.

My fingers grapple for the dagger at my ankle but only feel the loose ties of my laces. The upheaval must have untethered the blade from its makeshift harness. Twisting my head, I glimpse the knife over a dozen feet away, too far away. The vegetation has caught it like a snare.

Like a snare…

My frantic gaze darts about. While hunters make their own traps, they also know how to spot ones growing amidst the wild, fabrications generated by nature itself. Spotting a nest of branches beside us, I calculate its proximity, then flit my attention to the Fae. Multiple straps contain rows of stars at his thigh. The weapons suit his lanky stature, which aligns with my petite frame, which is about to come in handy.

I use my weight to flip us over. The branches snatch his tail, clicking into place as he bleats and thrashes. “You mortal bitch! Over here! She’s over here! Get me out of this thing! Now!”

Retrieving the dagger and twilled ribbon is a lost cause. I load my crossbow and spin to avoid another projectile, then target the next and blow it to smithereens. Again, I tumble, this time in the opposite direction. Pitching onto my knees, I let a bolt fly, knocking a star from its trajectory.

As for the arrows, they’re made of an unfamiliar Fae wood. But where is the longbow crafted of yew? Where is he?

I pivot and flee, the scenery reduced to collages of color on either side of me. Ahead, a veil appears. It glitters like a drapery woven of starlight, though I can’t see beyond its film.

A voice yowls, “Stop her before she—”

I dive through the sheer border and plunge to the ground. Flopping onto my back, I gape at the cacophony of Faeries hissing and swearing. Hooves gallop toward the veil at a breakneck pace—four hooves, not two.

From the sound of it, those limbs belong to a massive figure. A horse, likely attached to a humanlike torso. The faint outline of a longbow appears first, along with a pair of fingers maneuvering the weapon.

I scramble to my feet, aim my crossbow toward the pursuer, and shoot.

A baritone voice growls. The figure storms sideways through the starlit curtain, the mist sweeping out of his way. I scurry backward as Cypress flounders, crashing to the floor with a great wallop that shakes the earth. My bolt is lodged in his flank, blood drizzling into his coat. The horn helmet slips off his head as he groans, pain searing across his features. His hands twitch; they attempt to reach for the bolt, but it’s too far to grasp, particularly in his contorted position.

The longbow I had thought he’d been wielding slumps across his back, harnessed and unused. I must have been mistaken, but why wouldn’t he target me?

Cypress struggles to rise, his hooves tangled in a snare of brambles that bite into his limbs, similar to the one that caught the boar shoat. The centaur mutters an aggravated oath.

I blink out of my trance. For some reason, the other Faeries haven’t crossed the spangled veil. In fact, their voices subside in a wave of petulant vulgarities and ethereal complaints, followed by the echoes of retreat. One of them mutters about a consolatory drink and a round of dancing. I can’t tell if Puck is amongst them.

Eventide drips into the woods. Although it’s the optimal hour, the Folk would rather leave than venture into this area? With me so close, in catching distance?

Nevertheless, I count my blessings. They’re gone, and Cypress is otherwise incapacitated.

I whip toward a cobbled path and sprint several steps before pausing. My hands ball into fists. The equine’s not my problem. He’s no better than the rest of them, an enemy who wants to stalk me to within an inch of my life.

I start and stall once more. I think of Puck. I think of our time in The Passel of Boars and The Skulk of Foxes. I think of the moment when he’d been about to move, to make a choice he shouldn’t make. When he’d been about to defy the rules for no discernible reason.