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Her frenzied sidekick spiraled and tweeted around them, likely issuing righteous protests. When the watch hawk cawed a threat, Punk merely squawked back, indignant.

Lyrik slumped against a railing, having bested another male but losing the battle to a female soldier. I nodded for her to release the squatter. Excluding the skirmish, he had broken no laws, and a reckoning where he was concerned wasn’t worth the effort.

They hauled Aspen to the ground level and over the arched bridge. A vision of her legs swinging between the rungs as she told me about her sick mother, and as I told her about my dying wife, surged to the forefront of my memory.

Someplace from above, Nicu screamed while gently detained by the man he’d punched. “No!” he yelled. “Take off her ribbons! Leave her alone!”

Aspen flopped in the man’s grip, grunting curses. I strode to meet her halfway, stopping just short of her scent, of the snare in her eyes.

Aire, she mouthed.

At the shape of my name on her lips, pain impaired my reflexes, my sword inches from my fingers. I had once told her that someone should cut out her tongue.

A new sound pulled us apart. Relief had me twisting, eager for its source, for anything to keep from looking at her.

Another chorus of hooves plowed through the woodland, a half dozen steeds grinding through the mesh of leaves, adding to the debris of this moment—albeit with a more drastic flair.

When I’d found the search party, I had been informed of a split and requested a message be delivered to the missing half of the company, along with instructions on where to find us. Now chestnut and claret banners whipped from staffs, regal in height and catching a breeze. The Royal mark of leaves and crown glinted in the dusk, while Lyrik’s flame lanterns puffed to life amidst the treehouses.

The aftermath made for an appropriate greeting as two hooded figures galloped from group, their approach whisking leaves from the ground, the foliage spiraling around them in greeting. They yanked their horses to a standstill. Their arrival lacked pageantry, its usual combination of refinement and flamboyance. As well it should, for these were unusual times.

I sunk to my knee, along with my comrades.

The figures sprang from their horses and threw back their hoods.

The woman wore a bronze mantel adorned with delicately threaded chain and a gown of walnut cashmere. Her red hair had been twisted into a braided scroll, though it sagged in disarray, hanging off her nape like a sack. Violet puddles lurked beneath her eyes, and a dire expression twisted her face as she peered around.

The man rushed to her side, his high-collared brocade coat void of its normal splendor, the lavish material stained with muck and wrinkled. His dark hair had always been an intended mess, artfully strewn around his head, but today, it seemed less a show and more a disregard. Where decorative paint customarily encircled his eyes, I saw no embellishment, nothing but an untold critical emotion.

He had the eyes of Nicu, except fifteen years older. No matter the strife, those irises never lost their luminosity.

The man’s green gaze joined the woman’s as they scanned the treehouses. In spite of the trying circumstances that had befallen the couple, persistence radiated from them, the sort of mettle that had withstood the tests of time—from their forbidden love story, to their defiance of kingdoms, to their quest for social change in Autumn, to their campaigns for equality, to their support for the rights of all people, especially those branded as born fools.

Perseverance burned within the tenacious set of the woman’s chin and impassioned gleam in the man’s eyes. They embodied strength, a force unto themselves, obligating the woodland to bow its head in honor.

Nevertheless, their clothes hung off them, and they hung off each other, as if needing the reinforcement, as if either might otherwise collapse from worry.

Together, they consumed the scenery to such a heartfelt, hazardous degree that it gnawed at my conscience. They checked every nook and cranny, prowling the bridges, stairways, and levels for Nicu—for their son.

The Princess and Court Jester of Autumn had arrived.

A tentative creak alerted them, their gazes landing upon him. I watched as he peeled himself from the knight and crept down the last flight of steps, his cheeks bursting with pink.

Nicu’s eyes pooled, his face crumbling like a child’s. “Mama.”

A strangled sound leapt from Princess Briar. Picking up her skirts, she sprinted toward him, and he toward her, and they collided in a tangle of gentle cries and quavering shoulders.

Nicu’s voice filled the crook of her neck. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry...”

Poet, the Court Jester, stood adrift. Although a master of dance and acrobatics, he swayed presently, his expression one of awe, as though feasting upon the sun for the first time.

When the father and son locked gazes, Poet’s trance broke. He walked slowly, meeting his son halfway, where they stared at one another, a tumult of emotions unfurling between them.

In all my years of service, I rarely observed the jester at a loss for words. And never like this.

Poet’s throat bobbed while Nicu’s mouth trembled. I did not sense regret from the young man, but I did sense guilt, the push and pull of rebellion and love, of belonging and separation.

Nicu straightened, holding himself taller. “Papa,” he said. “Papa, I—”