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But fury eclipses fear when he notices Love in trouble, his crossbow stymieing a shaft barreling for her heart. Distracting by that, he fails to notice an arrow slitting his way until the last moment. At Love and Sorrow’s combined shout, Andrew flings himself sideways and rolls across the ground. Sitting upright, his pewter eyes balloon as another projectile rips through the leaves, hell bent on his cranium.

Love drops from her vigil. Her booted feet smack the ground as she lands in front of a numb Andrew and swings her forearm, slapping the arrow out of the way. Hobbling on his impaired leg, Andrew gets to his feet just as she turns and gives him a wink.

Merry’s neon bow brightens the murk, aiding in visibility. Anger wrenches arrow after arrow from his quiver, the motions harsh enough to dislocate a shoulder and faster than it takes for each loosed weapon to hit.

Sorrow swings her body to the right, then leaps as an arrow whizzes beneath her. Mid-jump, she fires into the beeches. A second later, the ice shaft emerges back in her quiver.

There’s no telling if her nemesis is down.

There’s still no telling who the nemesis is.

Out of nowhere, a figure hops from the bushes. Sorrow’s reaction is immediate. Her fingers stall, and her jaw plummets, and she’s pretty sure her peers have similar responses.

The stranger is small and male.

The stranger is a child. And the child is leering.

Another youth pops out from behind the first. And another one emerges, prancing from the underbrush like a faerie. And another, and another.

Five archers who can’t be more than eight years old. Two males, three females.

Of the latter, one female has periwinkle hair, and one exhibits shimmering tinsel irises, and one bears a cluster of freckles.

Of the former, one male has chocolate skin and a gazelle-like mien that will someday rival Envy’s.

The other boasts a velvet robe and lilac eyes with a decorative serum threading along his lashes, akin to mascara. Come to think of it, the embellishment’s midnight sheen reminds Sorrow of tears that lack actual grief. Celebratory tears, which is much better than the razor scars tracking up her inner arms.

The mascara-painted youth is the one who’d revealed himself initially, his gaggle having trailed after him. The buoyant little squirts brandish arrows of clovers, sugar, sand, and other things she’s too stunned to recognize.

Clearly, Sorrow, Envy, Merry, Anger, Malice, Wonder, Andrew, and Love hadn’t registered the diminutive size of the arrows. It’s a rookie mistake that will humble them all later.

There’s a collective pause. This is precisely the reaction the children had been hoping for, as they giggle up a storm. Crap, is this why Sorrow heard laughter by the pond? Are these children…playing?

A very big maybe. Has she forgotten the distinctions between mortal youths and immortal ones? To say the least, her kind are sturdier even during their upbringing, and their definition of fun has a sharper edge than that of humans.

Well, this explains how Sorrow and her friends had been spotted trespassing. At least, so quickly. This part of the forest is tedious to traverse through, not to mention accessible from few sources. That’s why it’s unfrequented. And that’s why their band had chosen it.

It seems the children had been exploring. Sorrow doesn’t recognize the tittering group and can’t tell what root emotions they represent. Not that everyone knows everyone personally in the Peaks.

In any case, it’s possible the tykes haven’t got an inkling that they’re facing eight outlawed archers. It’s also possible that if they do know, they consider it a thrill rather than a dilemma.

Or it’s possible they don’t care either way, because the little boogers twirl like discs and caper back into the brush, their laughter trickling behind them. Echoes of mirth flit through the boughs, the silvery reverberation akin to wind chimes.

One. Two. Three.

Everyone disarms with a collective sigh.

Okay, not all of them disarm. And not all of them sigh.

Anger growls. Malice seethes. Andrew bleats.

Envy does whatever Envy does.

In short, the males fail to pull themselves together, while the females deliberate and inspect the environment, their weapons braced.

Anger’s earrings flash, a hoop dangling from one lobe, a stud embedded in the other. He slams down his longbow, a definite sign that he’s pissed beyond his quota.

The rage god strides over to Merry and hauls her against him, clasping her in a hug that would shatter mortal bones, but only causes his soul mate to gasp and drop her neon archery. She winds her arms around him, and they remain like that.