No, he thought. Once the rings were safely with Arianrhod, once her rule was secured, Gwydion would return to the mountains. He did not know what it would take—trickery, fighting—but he would retrieve her brooch. It was the least he owed her.
But for now, all he could do was flee.
As he ran, he reached out to the forest. He went barefoot so that he could feel the breath and pulse of the wood.Talk to me, he thought.Tell me what is to come.
The trees creaked, shivered, and whispered of an oncoming storm. The forces of Annwvyn were mustering. They would be nimble—immortals could flit through the forest as swift as deer. Even with the trees guiding his way, with undergrowth moving aside for him, the folk would catch up.
And Gwydion could not fight them.
His steps slowed. Every breath felt like fire in his chest, and hislegs shook with exertion. His strength was flagging, and he knew he would not reach the edge of the forest before the otherfolk came for him.
As if summoned by his thoughts, he heard the baying of hounds. Shouts rang out, far too close for his comfort.
They were not simply coming—they werehere.
Gwydion uttered a quiet curse.
This was the true Wild Hunt: a single mortal pursued through a forest by monsters and hunters. A memory flickered back to him—that small gray fox Amaethon had tried so hard to kill.
Gwydion was that fox now. He needed help. But there was no one to turn to.
No.
He would not give up. He had come too far, given up too much, paid too high a cost. He could not fail.
He wasGwydion.
He was not just a trickster, not just a hunter, not just the sickly boy with the broken hand.
He was the youngest son of Dôn. He had been born to the most powerful diviner of nature that had ever walked the land. Forests were his birthright. It did not matter to whom the land belonged—everything that grew upon it was his.
This time, he did not sing nor hum. This was no gentle power, no caress of magic to coax a leaf into unfurling or a flower to bloom.
Gwydion fell to his knees andscreamed.
He screamed his defiance, his anger, his loss. He screamed for the child he had been, for the mother he mourned, for the sister who had tried so hard to protect him, for the nephews he had triedto protect in turn, for the friend he had slain, and for her. For the huntress.
A shock wave rippled through the wood. The trees shivered, and the birds went silent.
For a heartbeat, all was still. Gwydion was on his knees, his chest heaving and throat raw. The world spun around him; he had never used so much power. He could only hope it would be enough.
A young alder tree shuddered. An oak creaked and groaned. A willow branch whipped back and forth, like a soldier loosening their arms before battle. A rowan shivered as its roots curled through the ground.
The magic had gone far deeper than even Gwydion imagined.
Every tree, every bramble, every flower and thorn—they all woke from their winter sleep.
And the forest went to war.
CHAPTER 37
THE WORLD FELT like a fever dream.
Everything was a blur of sounds and sights, the sensation of her feet hitting the ground, branches whipping at her cheeks. It was as though Branwen had died in that clearing and she was a ghost haunting the wood. She could not touch nor affect anything.
There was only the tug of a will not her own. Branwen surrendered to it.
It was a relief. Let someone else have control of her. Let the world carry her away. Perhaps then she would not have to face the death of one friend and the betrayal of another.
