The journey back to the Summer Court began with considerably less urgency than the hunt itself, which I suppose made sense given that we'd already accomplished the impossible and no one was actively trying to kill us at the moment.

  I was riding the Golden Stag.

  This was still surreal enough that I kept having to remind myself it was actually happening. The Stag had offered—actually offered—to carry me back to court as a sign of respect for managing to catch and ride him. Garrick was on Snowfall (or "Snow" as he'd started calling the massive white cat, much to the cat's apparent resignation), Saoirse rode alongside us on a sleek bay horse that kept nipping at the Stag, and the rest of the hunting party spread out in a loose formation that felt more like a victory parade than a military march.

  My ribs still ached from where the Spriggan had hit me. My arms felt like overcooked pasta from holding onto the net. And the Hermes Root hangover was making itself known in every muscle I'd used during that wild ride. But I was alive, we'd earned Oberon's respect, and here I was currently riding a legendary supernatural creature through the middle of the freaking Fae realm.

  Things could be worse.

  "So," the Stag said in that deep bass voice, startling me out of my thoughts, "you mentioned the Queen gave you an impossible Task? How do you feel about such a burden?"

  I'd been trying not to think about that. "Not great, honestly. We have to hold a feast that satisfies both courts—I can handle that part. But then we need to present gifts of equal value to both Titania and Oberon, and they have to not feel slighted that one gift is better than the other."

  "A delightfully impossible task," the Stag said with what sounded like amusement. "Very Fae."

  "Very frustrating," I corrected. "How do you give two people who are actively competing with each other gifts that they'll both value equally? Especially when one of them seems determined to be jealous of anything the other one receives?"

  The Stag was quiet for a moment, and I could feel the steady rhythm of his gait beneath me. Around us, the forest was alive with sound, birds singing in actual harmony for one. I really had to admit I was starting to like the Realm of the Fae…but, that, as E.W. puts it, is part of the spell. It wants you to stay. Focus Mac.

  "Tell me, Mac Sullivan," the Stag said finally, "what is a gift?"

  I blinked. "That's... a very philosophical question."

  "Humor me."

  "A gift is something you give to someone. Something they want or need. Something that shows you understand them or care about them." I thought about it more. "Something that has value to the person you give it to."

  "And what has value to Titania and Oberon?"

  "That's what I'm trying to figure out," I said, frustration creeping into my voice. "Everything I can think of, one of them would value more than the other. Something decorative? Oberon could probably care less. Something beautiful? Titania would claim anything beautiful more. Their favorite cakes? They'd fight over who got the better piece. I'm completely stuck."

  The Stag made a sound that might have been a chuckle. "The gift you seek cannot be bought or made, cannot be stolen or traded. It is something they both possess, yet neither remembers they have. Find what they have forgotten, mortal, and your Task is complete."

  I sat there for a long moment, trying to parse that. "That's... incredibly unhelpful."

  "Is it?" The Stag sounded genuinely amused now. "I thought it was quite clear."

  "It's a riddle."

  "All important truths are riddles, Mac Sullivan. If your mind is the one that could catch me, then you will figure out the key to this riddle." The Stag paused. "Eventually."

  "Thanks," I muttered. "Really appreciate the vote of confidence."

  The Stag snorted. “If you think I’m frustrating, never traffic with Dragons. They thrive on ambiguity.”

  We rode in silence after that, and I tried to work through the riddle in my head. Something they both possess but have forgotten. Something that can't be bought or made or stolen. What did that even mean?

  I was still puzzling over it when Oberon rode up alongside us, his mount was a magnificent wolf that was slightly smaller than the Golden Stag but no less impressive—matching pace easily. The Stag gave the wolf some serious sideeye, and the wolf actually glanced the other way. Predator and prey, although they seemed to know each other (at least I assumed, since the stag didn’t turn on the nitro legs and bound the hell out of there.

  "Mac Sullivan!" Oberon called out with genuine warmth. "Tell me honestly—how are you feeling? That was quite a ride yesterday."

  "Sore," I admitted. "Every muscle I have is reminding me that I did something incredibly stupid."

  Oberon laughed, the sound booming across the forest. "That's the mark of a good hunt! The best adventures are the ones that leave you aching for days afterward." He grinned at me. "You know, I've been thinking. You're the first mortal in... well, ever, really, to keep up with a Fae hunting party. Most of your kind would have collapsed after the first hour."

  "I had help," I said, gesturing to the enchanted boots and gloves I was still wearing. "And the Hermes Root probably saved my life."

  "Preparation and planning," Oberon said approvingly. "That's wisdom, not luck. And you held your own against those Spriggans before Saoirse arrived." His expression darkened slightly. "Speaking of which, that thief who called them—Lucien, your companion called him? We'll need to discuss him once we return to court. He's been causing trouble in my realm, and I don't take kindly to that."

  "Neither do we," I said. "He's the reason we're in the Fae Realm in the first place."

  "Ah yes, your mysterious client who wants him captured." Oberon studied me with those bronze eyes that were far too perceptive. "You know, most mortals who end up here are running from something. But you and Garrick seem to run toward trouble. Why is that?"

  I thought about how to answer that. "Garrick runs toward trouble because he thinks he can fix it. I run toward it because someone has to make sure he doesn't make everything worse in the process."

  Oberon's laughter rang out again. "A cosmic hero and his mortal keeper. I like it." He rode in silence for a moment, then his expression shifted into something more contemplative. "You know, when Titania and I first started these separations, I thought they'd be brief. A few weeks apart, maybe a month. Time to remember who we are as individuals rather than just as a pair."

  "How long has it been this time?" I asked carefully.

  "Three months." Oberon's voice had lost some of its jovial tone. "And I'll admit, at first it was... liberating. Hunting whenever I wanted, drinking with the Wardens, not having to attend every court session or negotiate every political dispute. Just being without responsibility."

  "But?" I prompted.

  "But," Oberon said quietly, "I find myself thinking about her more than I expected. Wondering what she's doing, whether she's angry or sad or just indifferent. Remembering things I thought I'd forgotten." He paused. "Tell me, Mac Sullivan, have you ever met someone and known immediately that they were going to change everything about your life?"

  I glanced over at Saoirse, who was riding a short distance ahead, her silver hair catching the sunlight. "Yes."

  Oberon followed my gaze and smiled knowingly. "Then you understand. When I first saw Titania, it was at a gathering of the courts—Summer and Winter both attended, back when the relations between our realms were less... fraught. She was holding court under a flowering tree, surrounded by Fae of every description, and she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."

  The way he said it—with genuine wonder—made something in my chest tighten.

  "I watched her for hours," Oberon continued. "The way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she laughed at someone's joke. And I realized that in that moment, I would have done anything just to see her smile at me the way she was smiling at the Fae around her."

  He paused, and I saw it—the change in his expression. The way his eyes softened, the way the cynical, fun-loving lord who'd been lounging with multiple partners just days ago vanished, replaced by someone who was remembering something precious.

  "So I walked up to her," Oberon said, "and I had nothing to offer her. No grand gift, no clever words. Just a single rose that I'd enchanted to always smell like happiness—whatever scent would bring joy to whoever held it. I knelt before her, offered her the rose, and said 'My Queen, I am yours if you'll have me.'"

  "What did she do?" I asked.

  Oberon smiled, and it was the most genuine expression I'd seen from him. "She laughed. Not cruelly—joyfully. She took the rose, smelled it, and said it smelled like summer rain and wild honey and fresh doughnuts. Then she touched my face and said 'Rise, Oberon. You are not mine yet, but perhaps you will be.'"

  I glanced at Saoirse again, understanding exactly what Oberon meant. That feeling of seeing someone and knowing your life was about to change.

  Oberon noticed and nudged his mount closer, dropping his voice. "The Leanan Sídhe is a good choice, Mac Sullivan. She's brave, clever, and from what I hear, she's saved your life more than once. A word of advice from someone who's been married for longer than you've been alive—don't wait too long to tell her how you feel. The Fae have eternity, but you mortals? Your time is precious. Don't waste it."

  "I'll try," I said, my voice rougher than I intended.

  Oberon straightened in his saddle, his jovial mask sliding back into place. "Good! Now, when we stop to make camp tonight, I have a bottle of something special I want to share with you. A little tradition of mine after a successful hunt."

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  We made camp that evening in a clearing that looked like it had been designed specifically for this purpose: flat ground, a fire pit already ringed with stones, even convenient logs arranged for sitting. The Fae unpacked with practiced efficiency, and within minutes there were tents erected, fires burning, and the smell of cooking meat filling the air.

  I'd reapplied the protection ointment before we left camp that morning, and the purple stains were still visible on my temples and wrists. Saoirse waited while I applied it, watching with those cat-like pupils that made fire rage in my chest (and my cheeks, frankly. I always feel like I blush constantly around her).

  Garrick had also reapplied, and he looked slightly less overwhelmed than he had during the initial celebration. Snow the cat had curled up near Garrick's tent, and I could hear him talking to the creature like they were old friends.

  Oberon found me as I was helping set up the Wandering Kitchen—I'd brought it along in case we needed to prepare food, and it seemed like a good time to get everything organized. He was carrying a bottle that looked like it had been bought at a local liquor store. I was surprised it wasn’t more…Fancy fae.

  "Mac Sullivan," he said with a grin, "come drink with me. Garrick too, if he can tear himself away from that cat."

  Garrick heard and came over, Snow following at his heels like a massive, dignified shadow. We settled around the fire, and Oberon broke the seal on the bottle with a soft crack that released a smell I recognized immediately. He turned the bottle so I could see the label.

  "Writer's Tears," I said, surprise evident in my voice.

  Oberon's grin widened. "You know it!"

  "It's my favorite whiskey," I admitted.

  "Mine too!" Oberon poured generous measures into three wooden cups. "Do you know why it's called that?"

  "Because it's smooth enough to inspire poetry?" Garrick offered.

  "Because it's strong enough to make you weep when you run out," I countered.

  Oberon laughed. "Both true! But the real reason is that the Fae who told me about it said that mortals who drink it are moved to write their greatest stories. That the whiskey itself contains the tears of scribes who wept at the beauty of what they'd created." He raised his cup. "To stories worth telling, scars worth earning, and friends worth keeping. Frankly, that was their long winded way of saying one of us got sneaky and enchanted the barrels in their distillery one evening."

  We drank, and the whiskey burned in the best possible way. A burn only a whiskey lover really appreciated. Irish whiskey is all oak up front, but smooth and complex as it slowly brings vanilla and cream to the finish. There’s just a hint of malt on the end, too. It always made me think of a good book and a warm fire (usually because I had one with me whenever I was, well, reading by the fire).

  "That's exceptional," Garrick said, his voice slightly rough.

  "It is," Oberon agreed. "And it's the only mortal spirit I've found that comes close to matching Fae liquor. There's something about it—an honesty, maybe. It doesn't pretend to be anything other than what it is." He took another drink. "Much like you, Mac Sullivan. You don't pretend to be Fae or magical or anything other than a mortal who's doing his best to survive wild situations."

  "High praise from a Fae lord," I said.

  "Not praise. Observation." Oberon studied me over the rim of his cup. "You're the first mortal I've met who's worth Fae attention. Most of your kind are..." He waved a hand dismissively. "Brief. Forgettable. You burn bright and die fast, and by the time we notice you existed, you're already gone. But you? You're different."

  "How?" Garrick asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

  "Because he sees us," Oberon said simply. "Not as myths or monsters or entertainment. He sees us as people…beings—complicated, flawed, capable of being both terrible and wonderful. That's rare. Even among the Fae, it's rare."

  I didn't know what to say to that, so I took another drink and let the compliment sit.

  We talked for another hour—about hunting, about the differences between mortal and Fae culture, about Garrick's cosmic adventures and my perpetual attempts to keep him from accidentally ending the world. The Writer's Tears flowed freely, and by the time Oberon finally stood to return to his tent, I was feeling warm and relaxed and significantly less anxious about the impossible Task ahead.

  "Get some rest," Oberon said, clapping both of us on the shoulders. "Tomorrow we return to court, and you'll need your wits about you for whatever Titania has planned."

  He walked away, and Garrick and I sat in comfortable silence for a moment.

  "He's not what I expected," Garrick said finally.

  "No," I agreed. "He's more."

  The next day, Saoirse rode alongside me while Garrick chatted with some of the other hunters about Snow and how exactly one goes about befriending a giant magical cat. The Stag seemed content to let me ride in silence, and I found myself relaxing into the rhythm of the journey.

  "So," Saoirse said, her voice carrying that playful tone I was starting to recognize meant she was about to say something that would make me blush, "tell me about this mysterious client who hired you to catch Lucien."

  "Not much to tell," I said. "They contacted Garrick through his usual channels, said they needed a very valuable ring recovered, and that the thief Lucien Leblanc had stolen it. We tracked him to Paris, ambushed him at the Louvre, and chased him through half the city before he opened a portal and led us here."

  "And you followed him through a mysterious portal without knowing where it went," Saoirse said, shaking her head with amusement. "That's very on-brand for you two."

  "Garrick went through first," I protested. "I just... didn't want him to face whatever was on the other side alone."

  "Of course you didn't." She smiled at me, and my heart did that complicated acrobatic thing again. "What are you planning to do after you manage to catch Lucien and complete your job?"

  I thought about it. "Honestly? I have no idea. Usually the second we finish one job, something else pops up. There's always another crisis, another potential cataclysm, another person who needs help and somehow thinks a cosmic hero and his mortal coordinator are the solution."

  "That sounds exhausting."

  "It is," I admitted. "But it's also... I don't know. Meaningful? Like we're actually making a difference, even if it's just preventing one disaster at a time."

  Saoirse was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. "Maybe I'll tag along. For the next job, I mean. I could use a good story, and you two certainly provide those."

  I felt my face heat up. "The Wandering Kitchen certainly has more than enough supplies to bring another friend along."

  Saoirse raised an eyebrow, and I immediately realized my mistake.

  "Er, not friend, exactly, but uh..." I floundered, trying to find words that wouldn't sound completely ridiculous. "Someone who sets me on fire from head to toe when she smiles?"

  Saoirse's smile was absolutely radiant, and I felt that fire she'd mentioned spreading through me despite the protection ointment.

  "I'm sorry," I said, reaching up to dab at the purple stains on my forehead in an exaggerated gesture, "I need to make sure I actually applied this, because you're making me feel things that defy supernatural protection."

  Saoirse laughed—actually cackled—and the sound was so joyful that several nearby Fae turned to see what was so funny. "Mac Sullivan, you're going to be the death of me."

  "Please don't die," I said. "I've gotten very attached to you being alive."

  "The feeling is mutual," she said, and reached over to squeeze my hand.

  We rode like that for a while, hand in hand, and I let myself just enjoy the moment without overthinking it.

  Later that afternoon, after Saoirse had ridden ahead to scout with some of the other hunters, Garrick brought Snow alongside the Golden Stag.

  "So," Garrick said, "have you figured out that riddle yet?"

  "No," I said, frustration evident in my voice. "Something they both possess but have forgotten. What does that even mean? A physical object? A memory? A feeling? It's impossibly vague."

  "Perhaps that's the point," the Stag said, making both Garrick and me jump. "The best riddles are the ones that seem vague until you understand them, at which point they become obvious."

  "You're still here," I said, suddenly embarrassed. "I forgot you could hear everything I'm saying."

  "I am, as you mortals say, right here in the room,'" the Stag said with clear amusement. "Though to be fair, most riders forget I'm sentient and spend the entire journey talking to themselves or their companions about me as if I'm merely a beast of burden."

  "That must be annoying," Garrick offered.

  "Occasionally. Though usually it's amusing. You'd be surprised what people say when they think no one intelligent is listening."

  I thought about the riddle again, turning it over in my mind. "Something they both possess in equal measure. Something they've forgotten. Something that can't be bought or made or stolen."

  "You're repeating the words," the Stag observed. "That won't help you understand them."

  "Then what will?"

  "Understanding Titania and Oberon," the Stag said simply. "Not as Fae rulers or as the Summer Court's nobility. As a couple. That's the key to your riddle, Mac Sullivan."

  I sat with that for a long moment, watching the forest pass by. Love. They loved each other—Oberon had made that clear in his story about the rose. But what did they possess that they'd forgotten?

  "I'm missing something," I said to Garrick. "Something obvious."

  "You'll figure it out," Garrick said with more confidence than I felt. "You always do."

  We arrived at the Summer Court in the late afternoon of the second day, and the palace looked even more magnificent than I remembered—probably because I wasn't being escorted to face charges this time. The gardens were in full bloom, the fountains sparkled in the golden light, and Fae courtiers were scattered throughout the grounds like living decorations.

  Oberon rode up to the palace steps where Titania sat on a throne that had been brought outside for the occasion. She looked as devastatingly beautiful as ever, her red-gold hair catching the light, her green eyes bright with what might have been excitement.

  "My lord husband returns," she said, and there was genuine warmth in her voice. "I trust the hunt was successful?"

  "Very," Oberon said, dismounting. He climbed the steps but stopped several feet from her throne. "Though I reek of days on the road. I should bathe first before—"

  "Perhaps I could join you?" Titania said quickly, hope evident in her expression.

  Oberon paused, and I saw something flicker across his face—temptation, maybe, or longing. But then he gestured back toward the crowd where I was still mounted on the Golden Stag. "You should meet the mortal who rode the Golden Stag. First human to ever manage it."

  The hope in Titania's expression died, replaced by something cold and tight. Her attention shifted from Oberon to the crowd, and suddenly every eye in the courtyard was on me.

  "Bring him forward," Titania commanded, and the magical amplification of her voice carried across the space.

  The crowd parted, Fae stepping aside with expressions ranging from curiosity to amusement to outright disbelief. I rode forward on the Golden Stag, acutely aware that this was probably one of the most surreal moments of my entire life.

  When I reached the base of the steps, I dismounted as gracefully as I could manage with sore muscles and thanked the Stag quietly. "I appreciate you bearing me this far."

  The Stag nodded, somehow managing to convey respect in the gesture. He turned to Titania and bowed his head. "Your Majesty, if you permit, I would return to the forest."

  "Granted," Titania said, her eyes never leaving me. "Go with my blessing, Golden One."

  The Stag departed, and I was left standing at the base of the throne while Titania studied me like I was an interesting puzzle.

  "Mac Sullivan," she said finally. "The mortal who caught my Stag, and has a plan to complete an impossible Task." She leaned forward slightly. "You interest me, mortal. Join me for lunch. I would hear the story of your hunt, and perhaps we can discuss your progress on the gifts you owe my husband and myself."

  Around me, I heard the intake of breath from multiple Fae. This was clearly significant—a private lunch with the Queen of Summer.

  "I would be honored, Your Majesty," I said, using the formal response E.W.'s guide had specified for royal invitations.

  "Excellent. My servants will show you where to refresh yourself. We dine in one hour." She stood from her throne in one fluid motion and swept past Oberon without a glance, heading into the palace.

  Oberon watched her go, and I saw that longing again in his expression before he masked it with a smile.

  Garrick appeared at my elbow as the crowd began to disperse. "Well," he said quietly, "that was interesting."

  "That was a political minefield," I corrected, watching Titania disappear through the palace doors. "And I'm about to walk right into the middle of it."

  I had one hour to prepare for lunch with the Queen of Summer, where I'd need to remember every single rule of Fae etiquette I'd ever learned, navigate her feelings about Oberon without making things worse, and somehow gather information about their relationship that would help me solve an impossible riddle.

  No pressure. Nope. Not a bit. None at all. Fuck.