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From the ground, more staircases spiraled around the trunks, leading into the heights. So many nooks and levels had been installed. Open-air decks and vista lookouts, with and without roofs. Resting areas with benches.

A network of bridges extended from landing to landing, crossing paths and spreading out again, the railings carved from hard, durable locust bark. One of the bridges arched, uniting a pair of trunks, but that one didn’t have handrails.

Everything was wood. Everything smelled of wood.

Planks and shingles and rungs and logs. All lumber.

Long ago, somewhere in this woodland, on the fringes of this hamlet, a lumberjack had gathered acorns, rescued an animal, and been rewarded for it.

Not magic. Just the grace of our Seasons.

“The treehouse colony,” Aire announced with wary admiration. “Thousands of sunsets have passed since this land thrived, the birthplace of a fairytale that has engrossed Autumn for generations. Many believers have sought this place, in search of the last two acorns, before resigning themselves to their fates. It is a nesting realm of wishes and disappointment.”

That’s why people didn’t come here any longer, accepting the facts: those two acorns had been swept elsewhere by Mista’s winds, as the tale said. Anyone who ventured here, despite that, left heartbroken.

Plus, the threat of disappointment outweighed ambition. A place known to breed a fairytale wasn’t always as romantic as it sounded. If it could be so blessed by the Seasons, it might be doomed by them, too.

Nobody was a fan of being cursed. Cautious souls feared making one wrong choice, taking one wrong action to offend nature and earn its punishment. The residents—commoners and tradespeople—had left almost a century ago, migrating to other parts of Mista, where they wouldn’t be tormented by false hope.

Snug between exposed roots and witch-hazel bushes, acorns sprinkled the ground. None of them could do what my heart could, or what the nugget hidden beneath my skirt could. In a way, I’d brought them home.

My palm settled on my chest. I didn’t worry about curses, only about finding what I needed. A clue. A sign. Whatever it took.

A pebbled creek curved through the undergrowth, trickling around the trunks.

Aire sat rigid. His arms strained on either side of me, squeezing the reins as though he might spur the horse into a gallop. Why did this place seem to haunt as much as captivate him?

Parking the mule beside us, Nicu was spellbound. If he had issues understanding distance, could he register how truly far from home he’d traveled?

He and I swapped grins, and then he sprang from the mule.

Aire helped me dismount, bearing my weight without the slightest wheeze. As I rolled down his body, the inevitable happened. My breasts dragged across his chest.

He dropped me quickly. His ears bloomed such a prude red that I wanted to touch them, until I got a closer look at his avian features tipping between suspicious and plagued. So what if he’d grown lenient with me since the pumpkin wood? He hadn’t forgotten the uproar I’d caused before that, my stunts in the cemetery and the castle. His eyes took me apart, piece by piece, searching for the jinx beneath.

If that’s how he wanted it, then okay. Who cared if I’d had fun sparing with him during the trip?

His attention robbed me of enjoying my first view of this place. Topping it off, the long trek combined with Punk’s absence didn’t help.

I crossed my arms. “I want my axes back.”

Striding to the horse and rubbing it down, he gave me a wry look. “I’m sure you do.”

“I figured it out. You know what your problem is? You’re not a perfect soldier.”

His hand stalled on the courser’s flank.

“You think a villain is a villain, that second chances don’t exist. You think anybody who does wrong stays that way for good. You think bad people aren’t redeemable. And by comparison, youthinkthat makes you perfect.” I scoffed. “Well, think again.”

He whirled on me. “And speaking of villains, you’ve accomplished little to vindicate yourself. You’re a catty, clannish, self-centered girl who hides her insecurities under a veil of conceit, avarice, and flirtation. You mistake followers for friends, assuming their esteem can be won through unscrupulous means. And you think such petty superiority validates you.” He tilted his head. “Have I left anything out?”

We glowered at each other.

Aire’s head jolted up, his gaze sweeping the expanse over my shoulder. “The atmosphere carries a fresh burden—a dangerous presence is afoot.” His eyes darkened. “Where is Nicu?”

I flipped around. Dirt lanes lined in stones extended around the trees, parallel to the stream. We rushed down one of those paths, calling out for him, the hazardous echo bumping off the trunks.

Rounding the corner of a spiral staircase, I slammed to a halt. Behind me, I heard Aire come to a more graceful stop.