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“So there aren’t several faerie warriors spying on us from their hiding places right now?” I challenged.

Coen snorted beside me. “Don’t look at me, old man. You’re the one who always tells her to be curious and clever.”

“I also tell her to be cautious,” Jagaros said, a snarl in his throat. “Something you are neglecting to do every time you call me ‘old man.’ But yes,” he relented with a grumble. “There are several warriors watching us right now—about fifty who can fight. And several more whose innate powers can help us in other ways.”

Innate powers. That formless magic that brewed inside every individual faerie until a catastrophic event made it explode into shape. Only then did a faerie go through the maturing process that Kanuk had mentioned, ears tapering, canines lengthening, senses sharpening like Coen’s had.

Just thinking about his transformation in the last year brought back a rush of butterfly wings, so I scoured for one of my million questions to focus on instead.

“What kind of innate powers do your people have?” I asked, eager for more information about what a typical faerie civilization looked like.

How did a world where everyone was different—where no two people had the exact same abilities—even function? Did the unique forms of magic clash or complement each other?

Jagaros chewed on his words before speaking, as if his mouth wasn’t used to moving this much. “Well, one of them can give voice to the wind.”

“Like an Element Wielder?”

“No.” Jagaros led us up to the catwalks, framed by columns engraved with intricate swirls. “Element Wielders can control the wind, yes, but they cannot weave their voices into it and deliver whispers across the entire island like Ayar can.”

“Oh.” I glanced back at Terrin, the only Element Wielder in our group, to see if he had heard. It would be just like him to contest Jagaros’s claim, but he was deep in some kind of conversation with Rodhi, the two of them chortling with identical cheeky grins that Dazmine kept throwing looks of disgust at.

Meanwhile, Emelle and Lander were walking side by side with Sylvie while Sasha trailed behind with Wren and Gil. At the back of the pack, Kanuk observed us all with clear cynicism etched all over his face.

“What’s his innate power?” I asked. “Your… brother’s?”

It still felt so odd to acknowledge any family of Jagaros’s. He’d always been such a solitary figure, a mystery that flitted in and out of my life as he pleased.

At first, Jagaros didn’t answer. When we came to a split in the walkways, he didn’t veer left toward that distant domed palace like I’d expected, but right, around a bend in the cliff that climbed high into a plateau above our heads.

Finally, he said, “Kanuk’s magic is similar to your Wild Whispering, although his bonds with animals run soul-deep and are therefore few and far between.”

Okay, so one faerie had elemental-adjacent powers, the other wildlife-adjacent. Thinking of the other three sectors, I asked, “Does anyone have an innate power similar to Shape Shifting, Object Summoning, or Mind Manipulating?”

Jagaros grimaced. If I didn’t know better, I’d start to think being open and honest was a legitimately painful experience for him.

“Obviously mine is similar to Shape Shifting, except my change is effortless and permanent until I decide to change again. And Pacay’s is parallel to Mind Manipulating, except he can infuse specific locations with powerful ways of thinking… which is why that has always been the best place for planning.”

We had rounded the bend and came face-to-face with the open ocean sparkling in a million shards below us. Jagaros was pointing at a lone rocky island rising from the waves in the distance, crowned with several giant banyan trees whose branches tangled together and housed…

“A treehouse?” Coen asked skeptically.

I was infinitely more impressed. Sprawling across the banyans, the treehouse looked like a castle-version of the one Quinn and I had built together on the outskirts of Alderwick so long ago: thatched turrets, wraparound wooden balconies, bamboo walls climbing three different stories. A single harpy eagle sat on one of the many roofs, watching us from a distance.

“Pacay infused it with creativity and collaboration nearly a thousand years ago,” Jagaros said. “And the one time I didn’t use it to plan out a war, I lost. So…”

He nodded at a spindly rope bridge drooping from the cliffside to the island and turned to face the others now that they had all caught up. For the first time since I’d seen him in this faerie form, Jagaros grinned with all his pointed teeth.

“I hope none of you are afraid of heights.”

“I’m definitely afraid of heights.”

The whisper came from Emelle right as we stepped foot onto the creaking planks spaced inches apart, some of them crooked or missing splinters, almost all of them slick with moss. The bridge itself had immediately begun to bow under the weight of Jagaros and Kanuk, who took the lead without a glance back as if we weren’t a hundred feet over open ocean, waves roiling and crashing beneath us.

I glanced back, though, taking in the paleness that had crept over Emelle’s face, and stopped to reach out a hand for her. Coen stilled beside me, waiting until she’d grasped onto my fingers before moving to the next plank.

“You’ve got this,” I assured her with as much confidence as I could muster. Maybe we should have just had Coen Walk us all to the other side, but Kanuk didn’t seem to trust his magic, and he definitely didn’t seem to think any of us were competent allies. We couldn’t balk from what should be an easy walk. “We’ve done far worse in Mr. Conine’s, remember?”

Emelle’s lips barely moved as she spoke. “You mean like climbing cliffs? But then we had trees and roots and vines to catch us if we slipped.”