Behold, the power of a wounded ego.
Then again, I remember the blue feather stuffed against my chest. That wanker must suspect I’ve got the quill on me. Taking into account the plume’s magical origins, it’s no wonder he’d want it badly enough to charge. If they get their hands on me, my whip isn’t gonna be enough to beat them down. They’ll use it to tie me up and tear open my bandeau, if they don’t plant a blade in me first.
My heart slams in my ribs. I’ll be cornered in minutes. I can race along the border and hope there’s a gap around the valley that’ll accommodate the mare.
Or I can keep pounding ahead, to where the ridges soar from the ground, their craggy steeples flecked with a mural of windswept greenery. The closer I get, the taller and more ominous the range gets.
I spot that mysterious border. Three trees stand beside one another. A hawthorn, an oak, and an ash.
The Triad is forbidden. But it’s either that or die.
Evening smothers the heavens, gobbling the remnant streaks of mauve and cornflower. My thighs burn, and my choppers rattle. I chant into the horse’s ears, listen to her pants, and lose track of the minutes.
I’ve got no choice. I’ve got no choice. I’ve got no choice.
I holler. The mare accelerates, launching across the wild.
Straight into Faerie.
2
We live on a continent called The Dark Fables. It’s separated into three countries of grim enchantment—The Northern Frosts, The Southern Seas, and Middle Country. Elves, dragons, and an array of mystical wildlife fill these lands to the brim. Being of otherworldly origins, Magic Folk fancy themselves too good for us human peons.
Bullshit. But reality.
Here in Middle Country? Faeries thrive.
Reverie Hollow shares its rural landscape with a vicious batch of the Folk. Our village is a sitting duck, fronted by a whole bunch of cliffs, with a whole bunch of woodlands, with a whole bunch of waterways rushing through it.
The Solitary Mountain.
The Solitary Forest.
The Solitary Deep.
Three domains guarded by the Faerie Triad. Yet the dividing line of hawthorn, oak, and ash isn’t impenetrable. That’s the irony. So enter if you dare to break the rules, if you feel like sacrificing yourself to the Fae’s whims. If that’s your fancy, they’re not gonna discourage you.
Just don’t expect to leave.
I can’t think about that right now, or else I’ll lose my supper. Vaulting ahead, my eyes dart around, searching for a gap in the terrain.
Nothing. Not a damn thing.
The road narrows toward a wall of boulders covered in filigrees of murky green and looming yew trees that cluster together. Other than the Triad, the vista appears normal, like any mountain scene. That’s what scares me the most—it shrouds whatever’s inside.
The trade poachers gain speed. Whinny Badass protests, resisting our direction. I speak to her rapidly, stroke her glossy coat, and hope she’ll trust me as much as I trust her.
The instant she lets up, I dig my heels in. We surge forward, my hair and her mane lashing together as the Triad gets nearer, larger. The hawthorn, oak, and ash stand sentinel, blotting out the realm beyond.
We crash through.
Branches crackle. Leaves hiss out of the way. Twilight vanishes like a magic trick.
The dirt path sprouts into tall splinters of grass. We race down a winding lane, the route curving so severely and crookedly that it almost trips the horse and unseats me. I wobble sideways but grapple upright.
The world whisks by, shawls of color passing too quickly to catch. The mare propels herself across soil and exposed roots, rearing back as we hit a cul-de-sac of brambles.
I’m clad in my knickers, doused in sweat and grit. Panting something fierce, my breasts pump against the scanty bandeau.
