There was no need to draw a ring. The two sides stood in wide crescents on edges of the market, almost but not quite meeting in the middle. All eyes were on the two men, and Theodore drew his sword.

“Theo.” Oboe hovered behind his shoulder. “Are you sure? Are you ready to fight him?”

He had to be. “It won’t be like last time.”

“I want to fight with you,” she said.

Conrad flicked his wrist into the air. “This is a duel, faun. No one is allowed to interfere. Perhaps it is foreign to you, but this is a matter of honor.”

Oboe did not pay any attention to him. “We’re a team. I should help you.”

 Theodore couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “You’ve helped me more than anyone. You’re the reason I know I can do this. Trust me.”

She lingered another moment. The things she’d done, the example she’d set, all seemed a mystery to her. Nodding, she drifted toward the crowd. There was no doubt in her eyes, just a sorrow to part.

His sword scraped against Conrad’s as they held them up high in the air. Both held a fist to their chest as a show of respect and then stepped two paces back.

Eleven years ago, Lance Grayweather dragged his only son up into the Upside Hills to camp. The two slept on bedrolls on the rocky cliffs. Theodore remembered how the freezing wind cut right through his clothes, and how his father forced him to eat wild game for breakfast. Roast rabbit on a spit. It made him cry to know the animal was alive and happy before they came.

“You have to eat,” Lance told him. “If you’re going to be a knight, you need protein.”

Conrad came out swinging, hurling his whole being into a string of relentless slashes that Theodore watched and noted. The ox charged, but he stepped out of the way. The tail whipped, but he jumped away. The plow drove forward, hoping to tear his throat, but Theodore knew it was coming. One slash weaved into another, hungry to taste blood, but Theodore answered each strike with the counter his father had taught him.

“Why do I have to be a knight?!” Little Theo said, again and again and again.

Lance’s response changed each time, searching for the one his son would accept. This was the answer that came back to him now, the one his father had given him after an endless day of sword drills and over a burnt haunch of meat.

“People need protecting.” Lance stoked the fire. “Not everyone can be strong. Not everyone gets their voice heard. There needs to be good knights. That way it’s better for everyone.”

Conrad’s sword zigged when it should’ve zagged, and he spun to attack from the other side. Theodore fumbled to block the attack, the blades shrieking against each other as he tried to keep the edge of the detective’s blade from cutting his face.

“Are you done playing games?!” Conrad said, and kicked Theodore hard in the stomach. Staggered, Theodore found his footing in time to sidestep a piercing thrust. “I won’t let you threaten Laien! It’s not your toy! I will not let chaos reign!”

Theodore pushed forward a barrage from the roof stance. “I am not your enemy!” He said. “These creatures are not your enemy! We are all part of Laien!”

“Illegal weapons!” Conrad shouted, lunging. “The prince abducted! The duke enchanted! A Feymire invasion! Spies! The Fair Lady assassinated!”

Sweat trickled down Theodore’s face as the two danced around each other’s attacks. The indictments hung in the air, thickening it like tar and slowing Theodore’s movement.

“You were never a knight,” Conrad said, and sliced a red graze across Theodore’s cheek. He stumbled back, and Conrad pointed a cocksure sword. “Just one more lie. If Lance were alive to see what you’ve become, he would die from disgrace.”

Theodore felt the blood run down his face. His legs stiffened. He had made many mistakes as Ranger Deputy, and he couldn’t afford to be reminded of them now.

“Theo!” Oboe shouted from the edge of the crowd. “Don’t give up! You can do it!”

A cheer rose up behind her. The creatures erupted, calling Theodore’s name, an echo of Oboe that grew louder.

“I hate this,” Little Theo said to his father. “I don’t want to be strong. I don’t want to fight or hurt anyone. There’s lots of other people. Why does it have to be me?”

The fog was clearing around the campsite as the sun came out, eleven years ago. Lance sat next to his son on a rain-worn rock and admired something he saw but Theo didn’t. “Knights should care about what they’re protecting. They ought to be sharp, ready to learn, should know the cost of their actions. I think you’d be good at it.”

Theodore lowered his sword, and Conrad charged. The fool stance tore a bloody scar across Conrad’s face from brow to ear and kept his ear lobe. Conrad did not stop to react, knocking Theodore’s sword back with a clang. The detective hurled himself forward with the plow, aiming to skewer Theodore, but Theodore took better aim. Conrad charged into Theodore’s sword, and was pierced through a chink in his armor. Blood spurt from the joint as he pulled away. Conrad’s sword clattered to the ground.

“Devil damn you,” he said, pulling a shard of magic from his belt. “I won’t lose to a traitor!”

The magic pulsed. Conrad thrust his arm and Theodore rolled away as a jet of flame shot from his palm. Feathery wreaths of flame reached for Theodore and scorched the arena. The crowd on both sides scrambled back in panic. Theodore leapt to escape but the flames chased him.

There was only place Conrad would not shoot fire, and that was right on top of himself. Dropping his sword, Theodore tackled Conrad to the ground and held his wrists back as flames continued to streak out, until the magic depleted and the two were left lying on the ground with the market smoldering around them.

Conrad coughed, spent. Blood pooled around his waist. “There it is, then.” His voice was a rasp. “Finish this.”

Theodore stood. His sword was within arm’s reach. The knights and the creatures all looked on, none permitted to interfere. Conrad’s eyes were still full of anger, but it was tinted by the grudge of defeat. The detective was his father’s pupil, and perhaps Lance had seen the same thing he saw in Theo. The difference between them was only a matter of experience.

“Nobody needs to die,” Theodore said, and offered his hand.

“You have to,” Conrad strained to say. “On your honor as a knight.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t a knight,” Theodore said.

A painful laugh made Conrad wince.

“We’re done here,” Theodore said. “Come on. It’s time to talk things out.”

Conrad looked confused by the offer of mercy. Whatever the detective thought Theodore was, it was not this. Theodore kept his hand held out until his opponent finally took it.

“The royal guard needs to leave,” Theodore said.

Conrad sat on the cot, fussing at the bandages at his waist. The healer slapped his hand away. After the duel, he was moved inside of one of the buildings commandeered by the watch. It was a restaurant with its tables cleared away to make room for the soon-to-be-wounded. Outside, an army of knights waited for instruction. Theodore needed to make sure they were the right ones.

“The King’s orders still stand,” Conrad said. “It doesn’t matter if you humiliate me. The Circle needs to answer for the attack on North Manor. I’ve sent word to the King about your protest, but without royal decree we cannot withdraw.”

“Then we’ll get a royal decree,” Theodore said. “A battle won’t fix anything, all it will do is make more Red Caps. The only way to truly resolve this is by talking.”

“That will be difficult.” Gardner Feather entered, arms folded in the sleeves of her white mantle. She was followed by Fife and the Tall Man. “I have news.”

Theodore braced himself. The odds of this being anything good were slim. “Tell me,” he said.

“The Titled have barricaded themselves inside the Inner Circle palace with the bulk of the spriggan,” she said.

“They expect the worst,” the Tall Man said. “No doubt Beira is fanning their fears now that the King’s army has arrived in greater force.”

“We stopped their advance!” Theodore said, flailing for something to grasp onto. “We just need to prove there is no threat!”

“The damage may already be done,” Fife said. “You halted the takeover. That’s incredible. But it doesn’t mean anything with the Titled holed up like this. They’re scared, and Beira is going to use that fear to her advantage. If she can’t coerce the council to appoint her Fair lady then she’ll push a Tournament of Titles and take power that way.”

“We can’t risk that happening,” Theodore said. Oboe had told him about the tournament. Even if Beira didn’t win, it would lead to a Fair Lady who valued strength above anything else.

“Then none of this matters,” Conrad said. “We will have to use force.”

A horn sounded in the distance and, within a few moments, Oboe came pushing and shoving through the door. “Theo!” She said. “It’s Percy!”

“What?!” Conrad said.

The group poured out into the market, with Conrad hobbling behind at the rear. The regiments of standing knights were parting to allow an entourage through. Prince Perceval, dressed in ceremonial robes, arrived flanked by royal bodyguards and foppish emissaries. The knights bowed, and the creatures gaped.

“Your grace.” Conrad groaned as he forced himself forward. He was not supposed to be walking. “Why are you here? HOW are you here?!”

“I came to address the situation in person,” he said. “I got special permission from my father.”

“You did?” Theodore was astonished. “How did you manage that?”

The prince looked like he remembered an old joke, and he sighed. “After you left, Theo, I thought about what you said. I tried talking to father afterwards, after we both calmed down. I tried to really listen to him, and all the things he worries about. This time he actually listened back. He let me come here to help.”

“You shouldn’t be here, your grace,” Conrad said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Perceval glanced at the knights that surrounded them. “Would you feel better if we’d brought another army?”

Conrad shut up. The prince gestured towards one of the royal messengers.

“Read the thing, Hubert.”

The messenger stepped forward and unfurled a scroll. “Knight Detective Whitechain, by order of the crowned prince, you will withdraw the King’s forces from the Fairy Circle and the Whirlwood. You are relieved of command of special operations and will return to the capital.”

“After you’ve recovered,” Perceval added.

“My prince, you can’t do this.” Conrad took the scroll, turning pale when he saw all the seals and signatures were in order. “We are in a state of emergency.”

“I know,” he said. “Which is why I need to put someone else in charge.” The prince swept past Conrad and approached Theodore.

“Theo,” he said. “May I borrow your sword?”

Unsure of what to say, Theodore unsheathed his sword from his hip and offered the hilt to his prince.

“Kneel,” he said. So, he did. The prince held the sword out over Theodore’s bowed head, and began to say the words.

“Theodore Grayweather, son of Lance Grayweather, and faithful servant of the land of Laien: I ask of you this oath. In the name of the Mother of Magic, will you stand for law and order within the Whirlwood Valley and all the rest of the kingdom?”

“I will,” Theodore said.

“Will you keep peace between man, ghast, fey, and feral?”

“I will,” Theodore said.

“With honor and care, will you speak for the crown among the trees, and speak for the trees before the crown?”

“I will,” Theodore said.

“Will you give aid to those in dire need, great and small?”

“I will,” Theodore said.

The blade touched one shoulder, and then the other.

“Then rise,” the prince said. So, he did. “I name you Ranger Deputy of the Whirlwood, and entrust you with all power and authority vested in that office.” He offered the hilt of the sword back to Theodore. It was light in his hand. A euphoria washed over him that rinsed away the ache and fatigue he felt before.

“Thank you.”

Behind the prince, Theodore saw Conrad with a priceless face frozen in indescribable horror. The marketplace stood in reverent silence.

Perceval scratched his nose. “So, uh. Now that we’ve got that out of the way…” He looked out over the crowd of creatures and spoke with a loud voice practiced for speeches. “Denizens of the Whirlwood! My name is Prince Perceval Stonewall of Laien, and today I come to you on the King’s authority! Our peoples, who have enjoyed generations of peace, now have that very peace threatened!” He turned to Theodore. “So I look to your Ranger Deputy, who has lived among you for months! I ask how things have gone wrong!”

Theodore coughed, embarrassed to make a show of this. “The… The creatures suffer because our kingdom has been unfair to them. We have banned them from the city, and we treat them with suspicion and scorn. We have ignored their anger and unhappiness, and now that the Fair Lady is dead, we threatened to take their independence.”

“Very well!” Perceval said. “Then this I promise all of you! I will reverse the ban on creatures across all of the capital! I will withdraw the knights from the Circle! As King, I will do all in my power to restore the peace and friendship we once shared, so that our bond will falter no longer!”

A great whooping cheer roared across the Circle marketplace. Perceval waited, hands raised, with a certain irritation for it to die down.

“I now send the Ranger Deputy to speak with the Titled fairies, granted all authority by me, to restore peace between our people!”

Another wave of cheering flared up, drowning out all other sound. Theodore, so overwhelmed in the moment, did not notice the danger until it was too late.

Conrad shouted something. He pushed past Theodore and the Prince, shoving them both to ground. There was a noise like lightning or the falling of a tree, deafened by the crowd. A javelin of ice dug itself into Conrad’s shoulder and hurled him across the market into the knights. Theodore spun to see where the attack had come from and saw a unicorn standing high on the roof tops. A lance of ice forming in front of her, floating and ready to launch like a ballista.

“Protect the prince!” Someone yelled. Beira fired her frozen spear across the Circle, but the prince’s bodyguards threw up a magic barrier and the icy weapon shattered against it. The knights rushed forward, pulling Perceval behind cover and open firing with a barrage of crossbow bolts. The Whirlwood creatures scattered. Beira Stormbreak bounded across the rooftops, dodging missiles and spells as they pot marked and punctured the houses. She reared, kicking her hooves in the air and laughing at them. Theodore caught her mocking gaze before she vanished from sight.

Theodore stood still amid the chaos, knowing but dreading what needed to be done.

“Open the doors!” Oboe shouted. “He’s the Ranger Deputy!”

The spriggan peered down from atop the battlements of Inner Circle palace. They knew. Word traveled fast in the Circle, and Feather traveled ahead to make sure it was known. Still, they hesitated, staring, not wanting to be the ones to throw open the gates for a human.

“I come alone, and I come unarmed,” Theo said. “I am not a threat.”

“Our orders are that none may pass!” One said.

They had only just arrived and Oboe was already fed up. “The law says you let him through! Stop wasting time!”

Cowed, the spriggan retreated inside. After another moment, the massive doors of the palace creaked open. A troop was waiting on the other side, led by a scowling Commander Épée.

“You may enter,” she said. “The Queenslayer will stay–“

“She’s coming with me,” Theo said. He took Oboe’s hand and brushed past the guards. The spriggan did not stop him. The doors were sealed shut behind them.

At every wall and at every window, fairies stood ready with spears and bows. There were fey of every type, some without armor and some with simple clubs or no weapon at all. Oboe turned her head, and saw children and elders packed into side halls and corridors with misplaced crates and furniture. These were civilians. The palace had become a stronghold against the invading humans, and it seemed everyone in the Circle had taken shelter here. The sight of them softened Oboe’s anger and reminded her why they had come. Together, they hurried up to the solarium where the arguments had started without them.

“You have lost your mind!” Gardner Feather said with an anger that startled Oboe. “The humans promised us peace, in spite of all that has happened, and again you endanger us all by provoking them!”

The Titled froze the moment Theo entered. They were scattered across the room, staring out the window or sitting away from the roundtable. Some stood with Feather, but others gathered behind Beira. If the countess had any reaction to the arrival of Theo, she did not show it beyond a flick of the tail.

“The humans have promised these things before,” she said. “Empty oaths. Words without magic. Are you truly so naive, Gardner? Nothing will change if we fall for this trick, and we will suffer the same injustice. We cannot throw away this opportunity. The time is at hand for us to throw off this oppression and crush the human tyrants.”

The other Titled did not say anything. Maybe they were too nervous now that a human was listening. Theo adjusted his glasses.

“There are other solutions.”

Beira trotted closer, her movement cool and serpentine. “I hear congratulations are in order, Grayweather. Not that it matters. Nothing you can say can change the fact that the humans have come to storm our gates.”

“That isn’t true!” Oboe said. “Percy ordered the knights to stand down. Theo is here to talk things out! It’s not too late.”

“Many of you are angry,” Theo said. “You have a right to be. Things between our people have been broken and unfair for a long time. It’s something that’s been there, but I wasn’t even aware of until I came to work in the Whirlwood. That anger, and our ignorance of it, are the reason there are Red Caps. It doesn’t have to be that way. I’m listening, and we can work through this.”

“Yes! You see?” Feather looked flustered. “We don’t have to throw away the treaties! All the creatures Oboe brought to the Circle are proof of that. The Mother’s children can live in harmony!”

“So eager to grovel at the boot heel of the humans,” Beira said. “Some of us are not so resigned to the role of victim. We know those humans came to wrest control of our own lives from us. These platitudes are only a means to make us surrender. To make the work they’ve come to do easy.”

“Beira, what you are suggesting would be the death of all of us,” High Lady Willow said. “We cannot win a war against their iron and industry!”

“Coward!” General Warsong shattered her teacup against the floor. “I will not debase our people like this! Stormbreak is right!”

The Hivemother heaved herself across the room. “This pride will be the death of us. We are the envy of all Fairy Circles because of the prosperity of the Laien economy. Let us fix what is broken before it is too late.”

“Get over it, you bloated grub!” The steely eyed gnome Baroness said. “We have been stagnant for one-thousand years. Countess Stormbreak will be our new Fair Lady, or else nothing will change!”

An argument raged. The Titled threw insults and bickered. Theo tried to raise his voice, but it was drowned out. Oboe yelled even louder for him, but they were all too absorbed in their own voices to hear.

Beira’s horn started to glow and made a shrill ringing sound that silenced everyone for just long enough for her to speak.

“There is no more time,” she said. “We must appoint a Fairy Lady but cannot agree. So, once again, I propose we decide this with the Tournament of Titles.”

“No!” Oboe said. “There’s no need! The humans want to talk!”

“We did not ask your opinion, nameless,” High Lady Willow said. “I see now that the Tournament is the only way. The threat the humans pose is clear. The strongest must lead us.”

Feather shook her head. “We must not define ourselves through violence!”

The Hivemother let out a great shivering groan. “I loathe to admit this, but the countess is right. A tournament is the swiftest way to reveal the new Fair Lady. Let us stop blathering and be done with it. All in favor?”

Before Theo or Oboe could stop the vote, the greater part of the room gave a shout. The motion passed like the blade of a guillotine. Feather let out a cry of grief.

“Do not look so sour, Gardner!” Beira said, taunting. “It is your own fault you took a vow of peace. If you wanted to become the Fair Lady so badly, you should have thought ahead!”

“Wait!” Theo said. “There must be a better way to appoint your leader than fighting one another!”

“Do not mock our customs, human,” the Hivemother said. “A Fairy Queen must be respected and feared by her Titled, or else they are no Queen at all. If she cannot fight or does not command the loyalty so that others would die for her, then she is not worthy of our throne.”

Oboe looked at Feather. The Gardner wanted so bad to make the Circle better. She was the only one of them Oboe trusted. If others could fight in her place, then Oboe knew what she needed to do.

“I want the Gardner to become the new Fair Lady. Let me fight for her!”

“Impossible!” Countess Thornberry scoffed. “Queenslayer, you already forfeited any right you had here when you assaulted the Countess! You are nameless, and we will not have you disgrace the ritual!”

Oboe wanted to scream. Of course the Council would forbid her from violence for being too violent. She cursed herself for her past mistake. If there was going to be a Tournament of Titles, there was a chance Beira would win. She couldn’t let that happen. Needing some other option, any other, she looked at Theo.

“What about the Ranger Deputy?” She said.

The Titled were stunned by this suggestion. “He isn’t a fairy!”

“He has a voice in this council!” Oboe said. “That means he has a right to fight for someone!”

Flabbergasted, the Titled discussed this point amongst themselves. Theo pulled Oboe aside.

“What are you doing?” He said.

She felt a flash of shame at having volunteered him for this, at wanting to gamble him and everything on the future she saw in Feather. “Theo, I need you to answer a big question. I need you to tell me if you can kill Beira.”

He said nothing. Oboe felt even worse.

“I think the Gardner can make the Circle better,” she said. “They aren’t going to let me fight for her. But, maybe you can. I know you can fight. I’ve seen you do it. I just don’t know if you can kill. That’s what happens in the Tournament of Titles. Can you kill Beira?”

He hesitated. “…Yes.” There was a tremor in his eyes.

“Theo, I’m serious. I don’t want you to do this unless you can win. I need you to be my knight. Can you kill her?”

His gaze firmed, resolute. “I can kill her. I have to.”

The Hivemother stomped a leg. “It is decided! Unorthodox though it may be, the Ranger Deputy may fight. However, he may only fight and risk his life as champion on behalf of one of us. Does he agree to do this?”

“I do,” Theo said. “I will fight in your Tournament so that Gardner Feather may become the new Fair Lady.”

Shouts and bustling could be heard below. Theodore looked up from his books and peered out the window at the arena nestled at the foot of the palace. The spriggan were moving the refugees out of the stadium, while worker gnomes and pooka cleared the field of debris. The Tournament of Titles was to begin at dawn, and whoever won would dictate the fate of the kingdom.

“Hey!!” Thistle whacked Theodore upside the head with a ruler. “Pay attention! You wanna get gored in the tournament??”

Theodore rubbed his temple and turned his eyes back toward the study material in front of him. Books and scrolls borrowed from the city watch and the Circle Library, all describing the species of unicorn and how to survive an encounter with them. An array of diagrams and illustrations were spread out in front of him. Each was depicted as furious and monstrous, skewering men and bucking wildly as parties of at least ten soldiers were called on to restrain one.

If Lance ever taught Theodore how to fight a unicorn then it was clear Theodore did not listen. The texts reminded him of his father’s advice, an echo either imagined or half kept. The fairy scrolls on the subject were more useful, but so loaded with jargon to be inscrutable. Fife and Thistle offered to offered to interpret, although Thistle’s help was questionable.

“You aren’t reading hard enough!” He said, pounding the pages with a tiny fist. “Use more of your eyeballs!”

Theodore tried not to let the sylph distract him. “This is something I don’t understand.” He pointed at a passage. “This says that weather magic should never be used for combat. That doesn’t make any sense. Isn’t that what Beira uses? It’s clear she is very powerful.”

Fife swirled his goblet and nursed his apple wine. He looked a nervous wreck, as if he was the one called upon to fight in the tournament. “Power is not the issue. Magic of storm and season can be extremely potent if used skillfully.” He took another swig. “That passage is a warning for young fairies born with the skill not to become warriors.”

“They don’t earn many fates,” Thistle said. “They get a little at a time, helping plants grow and easing the transition of the seasons so life can flourish. It’s subtle, and gentle, and hard to do well. Using that magic for war costs too much, more than any of them can earn back.”

“She’s cutting her lifespan short,” Theodore realized. “She’s not even hesitating to do so.”

“It makes her more dangerous than most,” Fife said. “There’s no way to tell how many Fates she wields, but it’s clear she will spend every last one to tear our peoples apart.”

Theodore wondered if his conviction matched hers. Getting up, he fussed with the equipment he had readied. A simple iron longsword and his borrowed armor. Part of him wished he’d kept his father’s broken sword, with its vorpal curse, but it was not something the fairies would ever allow in the tournament. Not that it mattered. Theodore had watched the sword as it was melted down and dispelled.

There were so many clasps and straps to the armor. So many half-remembered pointers on maintaining his equipment, on how to use it, on how to fight and how to defend himself. Putting on armor and holding a sword still felt unreal to him, but it was dangerously real and every moment he spent worrying about how much was riding on him was time not spent preparing.

He ran a whet stone across the blade of the sword. “She can turn invisible. Is there anything I can do about that?”

Thistle grunted. “Not much. Any unicorn can do that. They can’t cast any other spells when they do, though, so there’s that.”

“You will still be able to hear her, and feel her hoof steps,” Fife said. “You will have to attend to your surroundings so she does not get close enough to stab you with her horn.”

Theodore clenched his teeth and imagined himself paranoid and jumping around an empty arena. The more he thought about the coming battle, the less confident he felt.

“What about the other combatants?” Theodore said. “What can you tell me about them? What do I need to look out for?”

There was a knock at the door before either of his coaches could answer. Theodore unlatched the door and found Oboe on the other side with a dish of fruit, cheese and bread.

“Um.” She stood there, as if forgetting why she had come. She stared down into the dish and remembered. “I brought you some food,” she said. “I can’t cook like you, but I scrounged what I could. I don’t know when you ate last.”

Theodore had forgotten himself. Whatever appetite he had was buried by days of anxiety still piling higher and higher. Despite this numbness, he knew he needed to eat. “Thank you.”

She set the dish down on the table, and there was a long moment of tense quiet. Thistle’s expression changed. He looked as if he had noticed something both urgent and terrifying.

“Hey, uh.” His four eyes swiveled between everyone in the room, until settling on Fife. “Listen. Me and the Circle faun here have to go deal with something, okay? We’ll be back later.”

“What’re you talking about?” Fife was bewildered. “What on Earth could be more important than what we’re already doing?”

“Something IMPORTANT,” Thistle said, hissing.

“Do you need help?” Oboe said, concerned.

“No, I don’t need any help from you!” Thistle said, sounding very angry. “I’m just going to take your brother here while you two enjoy your meal. Goodbye!”

Theodore watched as Thistle dragged a confused Fife out of the room by the kneecap. The door closed, and then he was alone in the room with Oboe.

There was an awkward quiet. Theodore and Oboe stared at one another, the dish of fruit and bread and cheese still untouched.

Ever since the dinner, and that kiss that ended so poorly, Theodore needed to talk to Oboe. Even after she came back, so much else had gone wrong that there was never a moment to speak. Now there was calm, and even privacy, but Theodore discovered he had forgotten his voice and stranded both of them in tense discomfort.

“I’m sorry,” Oboe said, bewildering him.

“What?” He had no idea what she was apologizing for.

She fussed with the dish of food, as if arranging the apple slices just so would fix some problem.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” she said. Her eyes were fixed on the meal, away from him. Tears budded in the corner of her eyes, but she kept them back. “…I’ve been selfish. And angry. All those years, alone, and then you came and…  …And I didn’t care what happened. I just wanted to be with you.”

“Oboe,” he said, moving closer, needing to say something but struggling to find the words. He reached out a hand and she pulled away.

“I’m greedy,” she said. “You knew that wasn’t right. …There’s so many creatures. We’re all stupid, and lonely, and kind, and wicked, and wonderful. I didn’t have any right to kiss you or take you away. I’m awful. It wasn’t fair, not to you or anyone else.”

She always did this. She always turned her pain on herself, taking the blame and forgetting the credit she deserved. That’s what wasn’t fair. Theodore took his friend by the shoulder and pulled her to face him again.

“No,” he said, and kissed her. She fell into the kiss, like a raindrop running down the contours of a stony hill to join a stream, a river, and the sea. She held onto him like she was drowning, and the kiss was her one breath of air that she breathed in with aching, ready lungs. It woke something in Theodore. His careful, rational mind broke like a sky of dark storm clouds. It poured itself into her, emptying itself to reveal something bright and warm. A feeling that had been there, hidden, and he could not stop himself from admitting any longer.

Their lips parted. Oboe trembled, pressed against him, her breath shaky. She looked up at him, her face a desert in bloom.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Theodore said, and started to cry. “You deserve to be kissed, to be loved. …I’ve never had a friend like you. Not ever. I never would’ve let myself. I don’t know how. …But you do! You’re always honest and real, and you want so bad to do what’s right all the time, and… and it makes me want to do everything I can!” He was sputtering, choking on the tangled knot of thoughts that had haunted him since she’d run off. “You’re so strong, Oboe. So strong, and brave, when all I am is scared, and I don’t want you to be ashamed of that! Everyone needs me to be some sort of hero knight, but I’m not. You are. You’re the sort of hero I need to be! Don’t you know that…?”

She reached up, concerned, and wiped the tears from his cheek with a caress. Her mouth hung open, overwhelmed, with eyes overflowing.

“I love you,” he told her. The confession was a weight off his chest that sent him soaring. “You make me feel like more than I am. Like I can do this. Like I can do anything! Because I’ve watched you.” He laughed through his tears. “I know I can be a good knight because you bring that out of me. You showed me it isn’t anything to be ashamed of. …Thank  you.”

“Theo.” She held him, her hands squeezing him tighter, her breath held and her eyes aching to finally say: “I love you too.”

They kissed, pulling close, not wanting this moment to end. They clung to it. They kissed again, and again. Gasping for breath, they stumbled back across the room. Books and pieces of armor clattered to the floor as their hands ran across each other’s bodies, lips locked together. Her fingers gripped the folds of his clothes while he fumbled to undo the impossible array of buttons on his shirt.

No more time was made for study or preparation that evening. Instead, Theodore found himself entwined with Oboe. They held each other and explored the rapture of their bodies until they were so spent they fell into sleep more restful than either could remember.

This precious bliss was broken by the coming of the dawn. Theodore woke to the sound of trumpets, to crowds moving and shouts. He searched for his glasses and found Oboe fast asleep against him. Her smile was perfect, and she was so snug and warm. It pained him to wake her. She stirred.

He would do this for her. It didn’t matter if he was ready. Oboe needed him to do this and he wanted to be the knight she saw in him.

“It’s time,” he said.

Oboe did not want to let him go. He pulled himself free of her, taking part of her with him. Harsh sunlight stole through the window, a thief come to steal Theo away. He gathered his equipment, moving quick but with the same precise care he handled paperwork.

“I need to hurry,” he said. “Can you help me?”

Squirming, Oboe made a feeble effort to get up. She fell out of bed onto the floor and hurried to his side. He fit a breast plate over his chainmail and pointed his back toward her.

“I can’t reach very well. Hook the clasps.”

She fastened the straps, wondering if she was doing it wrong, and worried. The reality of the tournament was sinking in, draining her of the ecstasy of the night before, leaving her sober and afraid. She had asked Theo to do this. That selfish part of her that wanted to run away pulsed, wanting to keep him safe, wanting him all to herself.

Theo turned around. His armor was simple, battered steel plates, greaves and leather gloves. For the first time he looked like the knight she always knew he was. It reminded her that he had a duty. There wasn’t any other choice. The Whirlwood needed him to fight.

“Don’t die,” Oboe said.

He slid his sword into a leather sheathe at his belt. He spoke with a firm confidence that made her believe. “I won’t.”

The horns sounded outside in the arena. There really was no more time. She hugged him tight. The iron in his armor stung, but she didn’t care. She kissed him one last time, gulping the last drop of water from the canteen, not knowing whether there would be anymore. He lingered, admiring her with his bright green eyes, before going to confront his fate.

Over the course of her life, Oboe learned to be nervous when good things happened. If she thought she made a friend it was never long before that creature, or that creature’s family, realized she was nameless. It was only ever a matter of time until something went wrong. Yet, she kept trying. Kept hoping.

The hallways of the palace were empty. All eyes and bodies would be drawn to the tournament arena. Oboe made her way to the seating, getting lost, trying to shake the looming sense of doom hanging over her.

“There you are!”

Oboe was startled to see her brother Fife marching up from behind. “Where have you been? Have you seen the Ranger Deputy? The tournament is starting soon!”

“He just left for the Challenger’s Paddock,” she said.

Fife relaxed, but only a little. “Good,” he said. “I was hoping we could do more to prepare the Deputy, but it looks like it’s too late now. What were you two even talking about for so long?”

“Um.” Oboe’s ears burned red hot. She didn’t know what to tell her brother, or if it would be a good idea to say anything at all.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” Fife said, much to her relief. “There’s nothing left to do but pray. Come along. That surly sylph friend of yours is holding our seats.”

It was strange seeing the arena filled like it was when she was a child. It felt smaller now, and there was a tense and eerie quiet throughout the crowd. Below on the field, the Hive Mother was delivering a speech with lots of important sounding words.

“How many Titled are fighting?” Oboe said.

“Countess Stormbreak is, but that’s hardly a surprise. High Lady Willow was more unexpected. She struck me as too cautious for this. Apart from the Deputy, the only other combatant is General Warsong”

“That’s all?” Oboe said.

Fife grimaced. “The cost of losing is too high. If you yield, you are made nameless. You bore that shame, but most would rather fight to the death.”

Oboe realized that Feather was taking a risk the Highest were not. If Theo lost, she would be made nameless, and the Greater Whirlwood would lose the Gardner.

They found Thistle snarling at creatures trying to take the seats beside him and munching on caramel apples.

“How can you eat at a time like this?” Fife said.

“It’s called stress eating,” Thistle snapped. “Don’t judge me. I bought you a bottle of applewine.”

“Oh, thank the Mother,” Fife said.

They sat, and horns sounded one more time. Oboe stiffened as she saw Theo striding out onto the field, tall and ready. General Warsong stood opposite to him, with her coal black feathers and her talons curled like scythes.

The gong rang, and Warsong flew like an arrow at Theo. Theo stepped out of the way and drove her back with a flurry of slashes that caught her legs and arms. She knocked him away with a kick, staggering him, and swung her halberd in a wide sharp arc.

Theo’s sword came down, chopping the wood of the halberd and snapping it in half. Warsong dropped the pieces and lunged to tear with her claws, only for Theo to grab and twist her by the arms. He forced her down, beak in the dirt, pinning her. She wrestled, scraping and grazing him, fighting to get free, but he wore her down. It was not exciting to watch. There was no decisiveness, only a long struggle that ended with an exhausted General admitting defeat with a wail.

Warsong was stripped of her armor and forced out. Theo disappeared into the underground. Oboe felt some hope return, that this would all work out.

Then Beira arrived, naked without her caparison, scarred but proud. Standing opposite to her was High Lady Willow. She was tall and broad like a tree draped in silken robes. Whatever tactic she had in mind was a mystery and would stay that way. Before the starting bell finished ringing, Beira pinned her opponent to the ground with a javelin of ice.

The difference between Theo and Beira was night and day. Beira tore into Lady Willow, freezing her to the ground with ice, and goring her with her horn. Her hooves came down on the face of her opponent, crushing it, spilling the leshy’s amber blood. The victory bell sounded, but she did not stop, beating what was left of her opponent to a pulpy smear.

Oboe held her breath.

Theodore watched in silence as the body was removed from the arena field by a team of spriggan. A ruddy stain was left in dirt, an imprint of a life snuffed out. He balled a fist. Gardner Feather leaned closer to him, a gentle hand at his back.

“Can you do this?” She said. “If you cannot do this, you must forfeit.”

“They’ll take your name if I do that,” he said.

“Better that I give up my name than you surrender your life for nothing.”

“Not nothing,” Theodore said. “I won’t let Beira become Fair Lady.”

Feather bowed her head. “I do not know what the Mother intends in all of this. I never presumed to want the throne, and, I think, you never thought to fight for us. I just pray we are reaching for the Fate we were meant for.”

It wasn’t a matter of prayer for Theodore. Beira was dangerous. Her grievances, valid as they were, could tear Laien apart. Her vision of the future was bloody: A great and terrible liberty. Theodore told himself faith didn’t enter the equation, but it did. There had to be another way. He needed to believe, in spite of all the strife between humans and creatures, that the grand experiment of this alliance could still work.

“When I make you Fair Lady, I need you to do everything in your power to fix the Circle,” he said. “Uphold the treaties, and make sure the sort of thing that happened to Oboe never happens again.”

“I…” It took her a moment to adjust to his certainty. “Yes. Of course.”

The gong rang. Theodore marched out onto the field, where Beira Stormbreak was waiting for him. She scraped the ground with her hoof, snorting, her body speckled by gore. The white hair on her brow was stained with Oboe’s blood from the battle before, and the wounds ripped across her flank had blackened into scabs. The composure seen at the council was gone, stripped away, revealing a hatred and anger beneath that resembled the monsters in storybooks.

Theodore held a hand to his chest to show respect. It didn’t matter what Beira looked like, and it didn’t matter that they meant to kill one another. They were both creatures, and they were both fighting for what they believed.

Snowflakes whirled around the unicorn. She eyed him, sizing him up with a crazed look. “Weak,” she said, with hungry delight.

The air turned dry and hot around them as moisture was pulled towards Beira. A flash. Spears of ice materialized, floating in front of her. Before the starting gong rang, she launched them and they sang, whistling through the air one after another. Ready, Theodore whipped out of the way of the first two and drew his sword. He knocked the last from the air and sent it cartwheeling across the arena until it burst.

Theodore allowed himself the tiniest smirk and paid for it when Beira breathed out a freezing gale of wind that lashed at him, pushing his boots back along the loose dirt and roaring through his ears. The spectators screamed as the wind blasted through the stadium and knocked them from their seats.

 Fighting to keep from being thrown from his feet, Theodore pushed against the typhoon. Before he could get close enough to attack, the wind stopped without warning and he was thrown off balance. Beira charged, horn aimed at his heart. He tumbled out of the way, losing his glasses in the act but spotting an opportunity. She passed him, her flank exposed just for moment. The old screams filled his mind as he swung to carve her flesh. He faltered. His sword cut air. She escaped.

The air was now thick with fog, and his vision was a blur. Her silhouette flitted through the mist and vanished. The stadium was loud with shouts and confusion. Theodore spun, trying to spot his invisible foe by some hoofprint in the snow. It was too late. The icicle lances came singing out from the haze and forced Theodore to dodge and weave as they came from every direction. He heard each one coming, but just barely. His focus wavered, deafened by the memory of every death he had ever seen or caused. All he could do was evade, helpless, while each of Beira’s attacks came closer and closer to ending him.

This wasn’t good enough. He needed to be on the attack, but his glasses were gone and his mind was distracted. He couldn’t afford to be merciful; Beira was relentless. There was only one way to win. A knight was needed, with everything that entailed. He needed to be the bigger monster.

The mist parted. Theodore heard the gallop of hooves. Beira was invisible, but she was coming. He reminded himself that Oboe wouldn’t hesitate. Oboe would do what had to be done to protect what she cared about. He readied his sword, and before the unicorn could drive her horn into his heart he moved to one side and sliced a red streak down the length of thin air as she passed.

 Beira slowed to a halt but made no sound or taunt to reward him for his cut. All he could make out was a silhouette before she disappeared back into the mist.

Theodore felt his heart race. A familiar, dark excitement lit up within him again. A thrill to fight and conquer. It frightened him as it always had, but he did not suppress it this time. If there was an evil inside him, it was needed right now. Oboe’s magic was called wicked, but she had put it to righteous purpose. If she could transform into a beast, so could he.

Peering through the fog and the roar of the crowd, Theodore caught the coppery scent of blood. He chased it, dashing across webbing frost. A new gust of wind blew to stop him, and Theodore hurled himself against it, using all his might to force a route straight to his target. He brought his sword down before he could see her, chopping gashes across her face and legs in a frenzy and driving her back.

She reared, shrieking, and pushing past his slashes she dove to plunge her horn deep into his waist. Theodore fell. His sword was knocked from his hand. Beira bore down on top of him, stomping with all her weight on his chest to crush him. The breastplate bent, squeezing the air from his lungs. Theodore’s hand found the sword. The ring on his finger clicked against the hilt. He rolled before Beira could crush him. The words of the Tall Man rang in his ears, and he pushed himself back onto his feet, feeling his life dripping down his legs. There was no pain, no old screams, just adrenaline and a need to draw more blood. He lunged to strike her, and she disappeared again.

Dazed, Theodore knew he would not survive another attack like that. He realized his mistake. There was no discipline in his attacks, no technique. Lance had taught him better than that. A knight harnessed rage and shaped it, driving it like a chariot to its purpose. Theodore took the plow stance and limped forward. The scent of her blood was masked by his own, but now the ghosts of his past were silent. He heard her hoof beats and followed.

Spears of ice whizzed out from the edges of his vision, and he batted each away and readied himself for the next. She tried to escape, growing more frantic, but he had crippled her forelegs. With each step he closed the distance between them. She caused icicles to rain down on him, stabbing his skin like needles, but he pushed through. Right when he was almost upon her, she turned invisible.

He lunged, driving his sword deep into an opponent he could not see. Beira screamed, appearing in front of him. Twisting the sword, he pulled it free. She fired a spell at his feet, sending ice creeping up his legs. Theodore hacked at her horn, it splintered and the spell wavered. With one more strike he chopped the horn off and the spell fizzled out.

His anger tensed like a taut drawn bow, aimed to kill. He loosed it. He ripped his legs free of the half-formed ice and tore into the unicorn, stabbing and hacking and ripping fast and vicious until the unicorn buckled, aimless, panicked, as he did not stop, his stances forgotten as he tore deep gashes across her flesh with fierce abandon, all sense replaced with a searing hatred for what Beira had done and meant to do.

She collapsed, thrashing against the ground. Theodore realized the grim reality of what he had done, and he found himself standing over his opponent, drenched in her blood, panting, wounded. His sword was primed to slit her throat.

Beira looked up, bathed in blood and wheezing. She was still trying. Bucking impotently, the frost melting beneath the pooling red. Pity sprang up in Theodore.

“Yield,” he said, panting, knowing that wasn’t the answer, knowing she was still too dangerous to allow to live, knowing it was already too late to save her but wanting to offer the same hand he used to pull Conrad onto his feet. “Please.”

The unicorn growled, foaming at the mouth. She spoke, a lifetime of hate dripping off two syllables.

“End this.”

Theodore took his sword in both hands and whispered an apology. He drove the sword across her throat and wept as he watched the last of her struggle end.

The body was taken. The spriggan hurried to smuggle the heavy corpse out of sight and out of mind. Theodore did not move. All round him, the stadium hollered and whooped and hissed. The last of the mist faded. As the heat of the battle left, the pain in Theodore’s side sharpened. He could hear Gardner Feather, now Fair Lady, delivering a speech, but it was just more noise.

There was no way to describe how he felt. Relief, joy, disgust, anger, and the uncertainty over what he had done left him numb to everything but the hole in in his waist.

Oboe appeared out of the blur of his vision. She had something in her hands.

“You did it.” She was holding his glasses. The frame was twisted, but she bent it back in place and set the pair of lenses back on Theodore’s face. The arena came into focus, filled to bursting with creatures cheering and weeping. It was done. Whatever the cost had been, the crisis was over.

“Thank you,” Oboe said.

Theodore tried to walk and almost collapsed from the pain. She caught him before he could fall, and carried him from the battlefield. His fingers found hers and they locked together.

The fairy healers fussed over him to speed the healing and dull the pain. Bedrest was prescribed, but the Titled nagged and pestered for the Fair Lady’s Champion to attend every ceremony and be seen. It was something Theodore tolerated but was only truly present for if Oboe was beside him. It was strange to be called a champion, like his father, but it did not bother him the way he thought it would.

Perceval arrived with his retinue when word spread. He had the smile of an anxious gambler, someone who won big and knew he needed to cash out before luck took its turn. He hugged Oboe but hovered near Theodore as if he might shatter.

“I knew I could count on you guys,” he said.

“What’s the situation outside?” Theodore said.

Captain Redriver saluted. “We’re in the process of vacating, per royal order.” Myra’s tone and posture were more proper than usual. “There’s been some disturbance among Red Cap supporters, but nothing major. We’ve offered to leave support behind to assist as needed, but I expect the spriggan will prefer to handle it on their own.”

A gnome scuttled into the foyer, adorned in fanciful robes that dragged behind him.

“The Fair Lady is ready to receive you, your grace,” he said. “Please follow me.”

 The group proceeded to the throne room, with Theodore lagging from his injury. The long ordeal had emptied him and left him with little besides a desire to sleep for months on end. He soldiered on knowing this would be the last of the ceremony. Oboe helped him along and together they arrived to find proceedings starting without them.

“…It does sadden me to say goodbye to my religious service.” Fair Lady Feather stood at the foot of her massive throne, her brow adorned with three almond shaped leaves. Her white mantle was replaced with finer brocade silks. “But I must believe that this is where I will serve the greater good.”

The room was packed with Titled of all species, and a few human nobles behind the prince.

“I know how you feel,” Perceval said, growing thoughtful. “This wasn’t the future I saw for myself. But now that I understand the mess we’ve been left with, I see it’s too big to ignore. …Ignoring problems is how things got this bad in the first place.” He looked around the room and smiled when he noticed Theodore and Oboe. “I want to make things right again between our people. If we can work together to do that, I think we’ve a shot of making this a real alliance again.”

“We are of one mind,” Feather said. She looked at the ranks of the Titled on either side of her, some with faces more inscrutable than others. “But I fear that there will be opposition among both of our peoples. The road ahead is long and difficult. Let us start down it.”

Over the course of the next few days, a new treaty was written. It did not contain any controversial decrees or new bylaws. It was more symbolic than anything: a reaffirming of the old vows with living witnesses and young new leaders. There was tense applause from the officials on both sides. A promise was made that would take a great deal of work to keep.

Theodore unpacked his uniform from the suitcase. A heavy khaki shirt and olive breeches, tailored to endure the outdoors. He fastened the buttons in front of the dressing mirror, fixed his tie, and stared at himself. It was a strange comfort to see himself in the outfit again. Like he was back in his own skin.

He saw Oboe sidle up beside him in the reflection. She pressed a gentle hand against his back, her face pensive.

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

Theodore pawed at his waist. The pain was there, but dull. Fairy magic worked fast when Fates were spent. “I’m sure,” he said. There would be aches, but aches he could deal with.

“Well.” Her smile was sly. “I don’t think anyone would blame you for taking a few more days for yourself.” She traced a finger down his back, sending a shiver up his spine.

“We’ve been gone long enough.” Theodore gathered up his long hair and pinned it behind his head. “There’s work to do.”

“You’re no fun!” Oboe flopped onto the bed and squirmed in mock upset. “Ugggh!!”

Theodore chuckled and checked himself in the mirror one last time. There was one piece missing. He picked the Ranger Deputy badge up off the dresser.

“Theo?”

He turned. Oboe was lying in a tangle of sheets. She was staring up at the ceiling, her face serious.

“I’m sorry I made you fight,” she said. “You didn’t want to.”

Theodore weighed the badge in his hand: A heavy eight-pointed star. Silver and iron, cold against his palm.

“I had to,” he said.

“I know.” She sat up. “That’s why it wasn’t fair. This isn’t the life you wanted. You didn’t want to be a knight. …Like your dad.”

Theodore fixed the badge to his chest. “My father was just a man,” Theodore said. “A creature like you or me. He made mistakes, but he did what he thought was right. That’s what made him a knight.” He turned to look at her. “I fought because it was the best way to help everyone. If that’s what being a knight means, I suppose I don’t mind so much now.”

He snapped his suitcase shut and fastened the clasps. “Let’s go home.”

They left the Circle, and saw that Autumn had come to the Whirlwood. The trees were burned with golden yellows, vivid reds, and steadfast evergreens. A gentle wind breathed through the valley and sent leaves drifting around them. A warm sun shined through the thinning, tangled branches of the live oaks.

Oboe held his hand tight. There was something on her mind, so he asked her what it was.

“Do you think,” she said. “That they’d let me be a knight too? A good one I mean. Like you?”

Theodore gave it careful thought. “I think it would be hard.” He did not want to lie. “There’d be a lot of humans who wouldn’t treat you right.” He studied her. In her he saw the knight he wanted to be. “But I’m not sure that matters. I think you’d be good at it.”

Something in her eyes solidified. Calcified like magic into shining stone. She nodded at him, resolute.

The trail passed through a copse of trees and arrived at the cottage. There was a big crowd of creatures waiting for them. Pookas, and birds, and shadow children, and trolls, and gnomes, and furies, and imps, and peskies, and sylph, and skeletons, and foxes, and goblins, and terrors, and trolls, and werewolves, and one big bear in the middle. They were neighbors and friends, the people of the Whirlwood. Every one of them had been waiting since the start of the crisis with some problem or another that needed the attention of the Ranger Deputy. They cheered and shoved and bickered and shouted all in excitement to see him.

Theodore and Oboe shared a weary but happy look with one another. The Ranger Deputy rolled up his sleeves.