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In this woodland, Nicu looked all the more fae-like, with his disproportionate pixie features and the braid curving from temple to ear. The weave slumped, errant strands coming loose. He reached up to fix it with one hand, not wanting to release my grip.

An olive set of fingers brushed his aside. Impassively, Lyrik netted the hair back into place. “There, little songbird.”

The most important tidbit of this scene? Nicu’s reaction, his eyes widening to the size of cymbals the moment Lyrik touched him.

Aire called out, and Nicu hastened to the knight, his neck mottled pink.

I scrutinized the potioneer. His messy hair and jaw stubble. His slouchy scarf and barbed earring. The way he eyed my friend.

Lyrik smirked. “Lively stripling.”

“Hey,” I snarled, shoving his shoulder. “Hands off.”

“You’re one to talk.” Lyrik jutted his chin toward a flapping cloak. “He’s a married man.”

“He’s a widower.”

“Even more fucked up. The ghost of his spouse will come back and haunt you while you’re riding ’im.” Lyrik snapped his fingers. “Oh, wait. Do you have those spare parts? And do they even interest ’im?”

He strutted ahead, mumbling over his shoulder. “Besides. Not interested.”

Fine. I’d overreacted and now wanted to hit myself. Aire had told me about his wife in confidence, and I’d just tattled.

During our walk, the nut in my chest thumped for attention. I grunted, my body hunching momentarily. Punk hovered, but I waved her off.

Nearby, the men had paused. I glanced up and realized what had gotten my heart riled up. We stood in a clearing of locusts, with inscriptions on each tree trunk.

“Huh,” Lyrik remarked. “Don’t recognize this cubbyhole.”

“Where are we?” I asked. “What is this place?”

“The words are wishes from tumble-weeders,” Nicu said.

He meant wanderers, wayfarers, and yes, occasional acorn hunters. It must have begun with one engraving and, inspired by the idea, people must have copied it over the decades. This wasn’t where the logger and animal had collided, because the story hadn’t mentioned a locust clearing, and these travelers must have known that. None had found the core of where the tale had unfolded.

But when they reached this place, they’d carved their wishes into the bark: longings, desires, fears, hopes. As if that would solidify their successes, or they simply wanted to leave their marks.

My stomach twisted as I thought of all these strangers yearning for what I’d been given. Also, for what I’d stolen. For what the Crown had been planning to unveil, to share with Mista’s people.

I shook my myself.Mother.

“This clearing has hosted many in need. Their wishes have become sacred,” Aire said, a gust tousling his golden hair. “Likely ungranted wishes, yet they collect here, they gather here, to honor that hope, passing it on to the next visitor.”

And in this spot, the trees allowed it, allowed people to mar the bark. My fingers twitched as I glanced at Lyrik’s rondel dagger, a perfect tool secured in his baldric.

What would I carve? Did I have a right to carve anything?

Lyrik reached out to trace one of the most cryptic inscriptions, which read,Dream.

Aire, Nicu, and I snapped at him, “Don’t touch anything!”

The squatter lifted his palms, awhoalook on his face, like we’d gone insane.

A chalky taste filled my mouth. My body—shoulders and hips and limbs—prickled. I didn’t know why or how, but I felt my mind growing, expanding. My skull and skin throbbed.

Knowledge. Knowledge of a tale. My tale.

Nature curled in on me, not daunting like my first treks. No, the forest felt considerate, as if it had finally decided what to do about my presence.