"Frogs," I manage between gasps. "They set a trap with wooden frogs."
Falla's still holding my arm, his expression caught between concern and reluctant amusement. "You alright?"
"I'm—" Another laugh escapes before I can contain it. "I'm fine. That was just so ridiculous."
His tension eases incrementally, then he's smiling too—a full, genuine expression that transforms his usually serious features into something lighter. Younger, almost.
"Ridiculous is accurate." He releases my arm but stays close, his shoulder brushing mine. "Should we collect them or is that part of the trick?"
I gather the nearest frog, the wood smooth and cleverly carved. Inside its mouth sits a tiny scroll.
"'Laughter opens paths that fear keeps closed,'" I read aloud. "'Follow the sound of joy to find what waits.'"
Falla tilts his head, listening. Faint music drifts through the trees—something rhythmic and cheerful that definitely wasn't there moments ago.
"This way." I start toward the sound, the frog still clutched in my hand. Some instinct makes me want to keep it, this silly carved thing that startled laughter from me instead of screams.
The path winds through denser growth where wildflowers dot the undergrowth in scattered color. I should feel trapped by the trees closing overhead, the way the forest canopy blocks the clear sky. Should feel my pulse racing with memories of running blind through similar terrain.
Instead I just feel... present. Here in this moment with Falla beside me and music ahead and spring air sweet with growing things.
Safe.
The realization hits with quiet certainty rather than dramatic revelation. I feel safe here. In these woods that used to represent terror and death. With an orc male I would've run from weeks ago.
Everything's changed. I've changed.
Or maybe I'm just becoming myself again. The version that existed before fear took over.
The music leads us to a small clearing where a tiny instrument sits mounted between trees—wooden chimes that ring when wind passes through them, creating melody from motion and air. Another puzzle box rests at its base.
"No frogs this time," Falla predicts dryly. "Probably something worse."
"Only one way to find out."
I open the latch more carefully this time. Instead of springs, the box contains colored smoke bombs that puff harmless cloudswhen disturbed—green and gold and silver mist that smells like pine and honey.
And nestled among them, another scroll.
"'What the leprechaun values most: tricks that bring smiles, riddles that challenge minds, treasures that shine but mean nothing.'" I look up at Falla. "What does that mean?"
He's examining the smoke with clinical interest, watching how it dissipates through sunlight. "Everything we've encountered has been playful. Non-threatening. The treasure we're supposed to find probably isn't gold."
"Then what?"
"Partnership." His blue-green eyes meet mine. "The whole point is spending time together. That's what the leprechaun values."
Of course. The festival's been building toward this all week—each challenge designed to strengthen bonds through shared experience rather than competition or survival.
Joy compatibility, not just functional teamwork.
"So we just keep following the trail?" I ask.
"Unless you want to stop."
I shake my head immediately. "No. I want to keep going."
Truth is, I don't want this to end. This lightness, this safety, this feeling like I'm more than just accumulated trauma trying to hold human shape. With Falla I get to be someone who laughs at wooden frogs and solves riddles and walks through forests without fear eating me alive.
