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We take a considerable shortcut that I hadn’t known existed, reducing travel by days. Apparently, undisclosed bends will dump an individual far from where they’d been, sometimes at the opposite margins of these woods. Not that Cypress imparts knowledge of those avenues to me.

With each landscape, species of trees transform from lacey to prickly. The fauna meander among us, threading in and out of niches like a living canvas. A stag with seedlings growing from its antlers stands proud, watching us from a distance. Bobcats shift to the size of panthers and slink through the murk. Voles with sage fur scamper into thickets.

After the shortcut, we progress down a main thoroughfare. I sit astride Cypress, a state of affairs that’s more about keeping me in check than keeping me comfortable. I’m the quarry, the trophy, the sacrifice. They’re the bastards who mistake savagery for splendor.

My limbs hang like cords on either side of the centaur, and my hips jut from side to side, in sync with his steady gait. He moves consciously, pacing himself. His pensive silence tells me he’s measuring my own.

I press a hand to my shoulder, feeling for a strap that isn’t there. Cypress had ordered me to leave my crossbow, notebook, and the rest of my possessions at the yurt. If I win, they’ll be returned to me.

If I lose, he hadn’t said what happens to my stuff. He’d just given me a conciliatory look.

My burgeoning fondness for the centaur has waned, though my feelings toward him had already been dwindling since the fight with Puck. Their plight should inspire me to empathize, but the satyr had made it clear that neither he, nor his people, had strained themselves to find an alternative. While I can’t fault the Solitaries for trying to save their world—I would slay a dragon to save mine—I can neither digest nor condone the solution. Especially not after the passage I’d excavated from the Fables.

In any event, that Cypress is transporting me with little-to-no resistance is a stark reminder of the truth: We’re not allies. We’re not even friends.

As for the satyr, I can’t go there. I don’t have the energy to sift through those conflicting emotions, fluctuating as they do like shawls of wind.

Cypress broaches, “They will not request fulfillment of your tasks until midnight.”

In other words, it’s not over yet. There’s still a chance for me. His assistance hurts. It hurts because he’s on their side, not mine. No matter what, he won’t intervene if the Faeries close in on me. Will he?

What will Puck do if it comes to that? Although he’s been safeguarding me since the hunt began, he can’t do so forever. If he has to choose between me and his world, where will he ultimately draw the line?

Well. I won’t need to find out. I don’t intend to roast on a spit tonight.

I would prefer to lash Cypress with a retort. Instead, I ask, “When humans lose, what happens to them?”

In The Redwoods of Exile, Puck had said any disobedient mortals confined in the trunk cage—instead of playing the game—end up getting eaten by wild fauna. Either that, or they deteriorate from the passage of time.

I’ve been reminded enough that mortals who lose the game also perish. But how?

Cypress hedges. Too soon, and not soon enough, the equine breaks the silence. He gets it out swiftly, saying, “They burn.”

Disgust is the least of what I feel. I shudder, my thighs digging into his sides. That’s why they want me at this feast, which commences with a bonfire. Outside of Middle Moon, they must light alternate flames for this purpose. Perhaps torches or a cauldron. That means I have the pleasure of being a special occasion.

The foal I’d seen playing with Puck travels amidst our group. She canters about, chatting animatedly with a mare.

I glower and jerk my chin toward the foal, although Cypress can’t see the motion. The accusation in my voice is unmistakable, dry and flammable as lumber. “You let the youths watch?”

“We do not,” he’s quick to answer. “We send them home beforehand. We do not subject our youths to carnage.” With a defensive edge, he adds, “They have seen enough of that.”

The Fae children who weren’t captured had nevertheless witnessed The Trapping. I cringe, then scrub the visual from my mind and focus on the task at hand. There’s no guarantee my bargain will be accepted. But if I know anything about these knaves, deals are irresistible.

I’m gambling on their zeal for surprises. Deals presented by desperate humans are an added garnish. This bargain in particular is sure to whet the appetite of a certain satyr who shall not be named.

We bypass scattered cabins embedded in various tree trunks or perched high in the branches. Moss drips from the roofs, and log chimneys cough smoke. Several doors are built flat into the ground, flush with the earth and leading into some type of underground residence.

Fae homes. These are Fae homes, spread out at significant distances befitting Solitary lives. Aside from revels and bacchanals, the Folk appear to live in considerable privacy.

Additionally, I glimpse shops tucked into recesses. Signs hang above the doors, indicating a bakery, a pottery, a teahouse, and an establishment peddling “Lively Mushrooms.”

Darkness fills the windows. Everyone’s at the feast.

We arrive in a setting populated by lush, fernlike trees. An archway of fronds leads to an invisible location, light simmering from within. The music of lutes, fiddles, and several foreign instruments—something with a twang, something else with a multilayered vibration—oscillates through the air, collaborating into a jaunty tune.

As we halt at the entrance, a bevy of nymphs swarms us. They skip from between the trees in a tide of perfume and intolerance. One of the males bends over to pet the foal, who relishes the attention. The male offers the little one a cube of sugar, a treat that results in a jubilant squeal.

Foxglove heads my way, her clique sashaying on either side of her. Based on previous experience, I have an inkling of what’s about to happen.