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“Assume this represents an elderly tree.” The centaur taps the inner portion, sketched to resemble a dense area. “What is this?”

“The heartwood,” I say, baffled.

“And what is the heartwood?”

“The oldest part of the tree.”

Cypress’s mouth slides into another half-grin. “And which is the wisest part?”

I waver and think of myself as a little girl, poaching and then abandoning that existence. I think of starting a new life with a family, a life in which I save things rather than trap them. I think of meeting a boy with cloven hooves, then encountering him years later. I think of who I was before I’d entered this weald. I think of who I might become once I leave.

My gaze sketches the drawing, then raises to Cypress. “There is no single, wisest part. The wisdom comes from the sum of its parts. It’s the whole trunk.”

A prolonged, deliberating moment follows in which the flames crackle. They polish Cypress’s countenance, bathing him in a stark light. “I brought you here because you helped me. Once more, why did you do that?”

“I told you why.” But truthfully, I didn’t tell him. “You gave me no choice.”

“You spared me. You did so in my home, when you could have left me there. You mended my injury using a piece of your clothing, spending that which is essential to you. Those are choices.”

“Not to me.”

“Puck was right,” Cypress muses. “You are stubborn.”

“That satyr’s been talking about me behind my back?” Against my better judgment, I clear my throat. “What did he say?”

“Why does it matter?” When I refuse to answer, Cypress dismisses the subject. “Aside from Puck, I am the fiercest hunter in the forest. Did you know that?”

“And I’m the fiercest huntress in my village,” I declare.

“Hence, why would you spare a Fae who poses such a great threat—such an impediment—to you winning this game? Why not eliminate that obstacle?”

Because of all the reasons I went through before, none of which I long to share aloud. Not with anyone. “Because I have a conscience.” As an added bonus, I toss out another reason that’s also true, one he’s likelier to understand. “And because I wanted you to owe me.”

Cypress considers my response and then rises, towering over me. “Wait here.”

He disappears while I sit there, flummoxed. In the meantime, recent events finally catch up. My tongue is dry, my throat drier. While I wait, I rummage through my supplies and retrieve the waterskin, guzzling its contents. Liquid drizzles down my jaw, beads plunking onto my lap.

The magnitude of my journey resurfaces. According to map I’ve drawn in my head, I’ve made it to the forest’s northwest region. But I’ve been so busy running from my captives and navigating this environment alongside Puck, that I neglected pursuing my task—hunting an animal that can’t be hunted.

I need time to breathe. I need time to rationalize and theorize.

Cypress returns, pitching me an apple and promising more later. Ravenous, I consume the fruit to its core.

The Fae settles in his previous spot, his hands bearing a flat object swaddled in cloth. “Nomads and wanderers tend to bond with their peers. You have your own version of such people in the mortal realm. Those who travel The Dark Fables. Your ancient scribes, for instance.”

“The ones who penned the Book of Fables,” I say.

“Tales narrated across campfires and over centuries begin with an individual source—a seed. And from a single seed, roots will sprout and multiply. As such, nuances may be skewed, misinterpreted, and reinvented.”

I cringe. This fact has never sat right with me, no matter the type of book. With the Fables alone, the mystical tales culled by those ancient scribes were repeated through generations. It had started with those initial wordsmiths, who’d crafted a duplication of their primary manuscript, which other scribes then repeated, over and over, passing them into the hands of mortals.

Because the Fables were replicated over generations, reproduced for humans to keep by their bedsides, certain gaps of information had accrued and were left unattended. Today, we’re limited to reading an abridged version, the offspring of its ancestor.

“Long have centaurs repaid favors with the utmost care,” Cypress announces, bumping me out of my thoughts. “Our kind gives what we believe is most wanted by the recipient. It is our way.” He gazes at the concealed item, visibly acknowledging the consequences of his actions. “To play this game and hunt an animal that can’t be hunted, perhaps you will need a firmer, richer knowledge of this world. Shall we say, the sum of its parts.”

I wonder if it’s a universal trait of centaurs, how he takes his time making a choice, then enacts it all at once. He extends the object to me around the fire. “You have earned this, moppet.”

I accept the gift with my free hand, settling it on my lap. My heart jumps into my throat as I recognize the item’s shape and weight. The apple core falls from my hand and rolls across the grass while I peel the fabric aside.