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“There is little point,” Cypress explains. “If there is no fun to be had or game to be played, it is not worth their time. They will find amusement elsewhere until you emerge from hiding.”

Which, I’ll have to do eventually.

Candles grow from the forest floor, bookending a cobbled lane. The walkway curves and dips down a hill, toward a cluster of firelights and the mysteries beyond.

I glance at Cypress, my grip on the bolt relaxing. The equine’s wound drips, crimson staining his fur. His dark torso inflates and deflates, each breath distorting the ink markings encircling his navel. His limbs push, attempting to free themselves from the nest.

I store my weaponry and move quickly, grabbing the bolt and ripping it from his flesh. Cypress grunts, the pain grinding from his throat while I rip fabric from my tattered dress and press the material to the gash. After yanking out the long tassel closure of my cloak—which causes the garment to fall off my shoulders—I use the slack to secure the makeshift bandage.

Since I don’t have Foxglove’s dagger to cut Cypress loose, my hands will have to suffice. It’s arduous work, pulling and twisting the brambles to unlock the cluster from around his hooves.

Cypress bucks free. I lurch back, avoiding the brunt of his kicks.

He teeters off the ground and rises, prompting me to do the same. I brace myself but find him balking at me, confusion warping his face. He swings his head between the brambles, the cloak discarded on the ground, the dripping bolt in my hand, and me.

“Why did you do that?” he demands.

Indeed. The equine hadn’t stayed his weapon out of benevolence, but out of duty. So why save him?

Because if this is neutral territory, he won’t hurt me. Because I’ve never harmed an innocent creature since I was a child. Because I’m not a poacher anymore. Because despite the game this forest has concocted, I’m a rescuer these days. Because I won’t let these Faeries strip that identity from me.

Why did I pull the bolt from Cypress’s body instead of letting him bleed out? Why did I help him?

“Because I knew how,” I reply, which is also true.

The centaur’s expression transforms. He glances at a location over my shoulder, weighing something in his mind. Finally, he nods to himself and collects his helmet, straightening it atop his head. “You will come with me.”

I squeeze the bloody bolt. Had Cypress been twisting words when he’d said this was neutral territory? “But—”

“Your own wound needs tending, moppet,” he clarifies.

My fingers rise to the cut on my chin, where the throwing star had whizzed past. The laceration stings. Now that I have time to focus on it, I feel the crusty residue of dried blood on my skin.

“It isn’t dire,” I state. “And I’ve been delayed long enough.”

“You have done me a favor on my land.” Cypress stares me down. “You will come, and I will repay you.”

A favor. Of course, the Fae wants to repay a favor, likely in excess because that’s how they are, because a grander compensation outdoes the first one.

The centaur departs without a backward glance. I shoulder my archery, stuff the cloak in my pack, and then catch up to him. We hike down the stone path. At the bottom of the hill, a bridge laced in willow vines arches over a stream, the eddies reflecting a tapestry of celestials.

A vast settlement of emerald willows and gleaming leaf tents spreads across a valley. Majestic pavilions and yurts, fully constructed of the same willow vines, loom as high as the trees themselves. The drooping vines form walls, the structures ranging in size, from wide to compact. Each residence pulsates with topaz light, while the tributary and willows thrive around them, intersecting with the stone lane and its candlelit trail.

“It’s beautiful here,” I say.

Cypress tosses me a proud but chastising look. “Did you expect it to be grim?”

Grim because of its remoteness and the fact that a dispassionate centaur hails from here? Yes.

One moment, we’re alone. The next, we’re surrounded.

My pace slows, my head banking east and west as a colony of centaurs appears, their broad bodies trotting, cantering, and promenading into view. Some pause on thresholds or glance from pastures where they lounge, observant rather than visceral—a sure departure from the woodland Solitaries I’ve encountered thus far.

Sleek coats of pearl, obsidian, and malachite. Piebald fur, splattered with tobacco brown and aquamarine hues. Ink markings twinning around their limbs. Cascading tails that coil or plait into intricate patterns.

Some of them wear belts with overlapping layers—like Cypress does—or leaf sashes. Some balance helmets or laurel circlets. Some are stocky, some curvy, and some slender.

None of them approach, despite Cypress’s gash and my presence. They study us as we arrive at one of the pavilions.