For a few seconds, the boy stood on the shore and enjoyed his victory.
The lake rippled where the wild girl had vanished. Bright rings spread across the surface, softening slowly beneath the summer sun. The clearing had gone quiet again, except for water dripping from his clothes, leaves rustling in the trees, and the faint, disapproving cluck of chickens from the cabin roof.
The boy wiped another smear of mud from his cheek and gave a short laugh.
"What an impossible little creature," he muttered.
She had fought like no girl he had ever met. Like no boy either. Spear jabs, rolls, tricks, dirt, kicks, ambushes from the grass—none of it made sense, and yet more than once, it had almost worked. Against anyone less trained than him, she might even have won. She was self-taught, half-feral, and utterly absurd, but she was quick, strong for her size, and clearly skilled. And somehow, annoyingly, exciting.
For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, he had been surprised.
Then the ripples began to calm and his smile faded. The girl did not surface. He waited another heartbeat, then another. Still nothing.
His amusement vanished.
The animals noticed before he fully did. Chickens shifted along the roof and treehouse, feathers tight, heads angled toward the water. Mice crept from the clay town. Rabbits froze at the edge of the grass. Even the squirrels, who had looked ready to throw acorns at him moments ago, now stared at the lake with sharp, anxious stillness.
The boy's stomach dropped.
"Damn it."
Most people in this kingdom could not swim. Not well. Certainly not after being thrown. She might have struck her head on a stone. She might have tangled in weeds. She might have sunk before she even understood what had happened.
Only then did he realize how he had treated her. Like a sparring partner. Like someone his own age and strength.
Like his impossible older sister back home, who swung swords around as if the world would one day be foolish enough to let her see a battlefield.
But this girl was not his sister. She was not his equal. She was small. Tiny, even. A feral little thing with a rusty spear and too much courage. And he had thrown her into a lake.
Fear cut through him, sharp and sudden.
"Gods damn it," he snapped.
He was already moving. He tore off his cloak, stripped away the heaviest pieces of leather and travel gear, and kicked off his boots, leaving himself in only his trousers. His sword remained on the shore, dark and gleaming beside the grass.
Then he ran and dove. The lake closed over him, cold and green. He drove himself downward with hard strokes, eyes open despite the sting, searching through shafts of light and drifting weeds. Bubbles trailed from his mouth. Stones, roots, fish, pale sand, and darker shapes blurred around him.
No girl.
He kicked lower, chest tightening. Still nothing. Panic began to rise, hot and ugly beneath the cold.
Unbeknownst to him, Lily had already slipped beneath him.
Years of swimming in this lake had taught her every shelf, weed bed, shadow, and hiding place. She had not been drowning. She had been waiting.
The moment he dove after her, she opened her eyes in the green dimness and watched him pass overhead.
Her plan had worked perfectly, mostly. She waited until his shape moved deeper, then pushed off from the muddy bottom and swam hard for the shallows. Her lungs burned, but triumph burned brighter.
The bad man, or bad boy to be more accurate, had fallen for it. He had left his sword on the shore.
His great, dark, ridiculous sword. Surely it was fake, or at least lighter than it looked.
Lily broke the surface near the reeds with barely a splash, sucked in a breath, and scrambled onto the bank. Water streamed from her hair and handmade clothes as she darted toward the abandoned gear.
Her eyes fixed on the sword. She grabbed the hilt with both hands and pulled, yet nothing happened.
She pulled harder. The sword did not move. She braced one foot against the ground, leaned back with all her weight, and strained until her arms shook. The sword shifted perhaps the width of a berry seed.
Lily stopped, panting.
"Not fake," she muttered bitterly. "Stupid heavy sword."
Fine, if she could not steal the sword, she would win another way. She turned toward the watching animals.
Chickens lined the roof and treehouse. Mister Terminator stood at the highest point of the mossy cabin, armor strapped across his chest, flower crown crooked but dignified. Sergeant Flap and Sir Pecksalot flanked him like generals. Hens gathered along the branches. Squirrels clung to trees with acorns ready. Mice peered from New Town. Rabbits watched from the grass. Even a few deer lingered near the forest edge.
Old Miss Attitude was probably asleep somewhere, but that was all right. She had earned retirement.
Lily lifted her chin.
"Army," she whispered. "Prepare intimidation."
Mister Terminator gave one sharp cluck.
It was enough.
Lily stepped back toward the lake and waited, hands on her hips, trying to look victorious rather than breathless, dripping wet, and unable to lift enemy equipment.
A moment later, the lake burst open.
The boy came up hard, gasping, wet hair plastered to his face as water streamed from his shoulders. For half a second, he looked wildly across the surface, panic still sharp in his eyes.
Then he saw her.
Lily stood at the edge of the lakeshore, dripping wet, hands on her hips, chin lifted in triumph.
His face changed.
Relief came first, sudden and raw enough that Lily almost did not recognize it. Then anger rushed in behind it, hot and immediate, like fire after lightning.
"You," he breathed.
Lily puffed herself up. "Ha. You fall for water trap. I have high ground now. I win."
The boy stared at her as if she had just struck him all over again.
Then he surged through the shallows toward her.
Water poured from his clothes as he rose from the lake, taller and broader than before without the cloak and armor hiding his shape. Lily's confidence wobbled at once. He looked far too solid, far too strong, and far too angry for someone who had supposedly lost.
"Wait," she said, taking half a step back. "Why you come angry? You lose."
He reached the bank in three hard strides, and before she could retreat, his hands caught her shoulders.
Then, to Lily's complete confusion, he pulled her into a fierce hug.
Her feet nearly left the ground. She went stiff as a stick, arms trapped awkwardly at her sides, eyes wide with shock. For one strange moment, he held her there, breathing hard, as if making sure she was real.
"How dare you scare me like that?" he snapped near her ear.
Lily blinked.
The words were not mocking. They were not victorious. They sounded frightened.
For her.
Something in her chest shifted strangely.
"What wrong with you?" she muttered, squirming. "You act strange. Let go, bad boy."
He released her, but only enough to look down at her properly. Lily stood on the shore while he remained partly in the water, his hands still firm on her shoulders. His jaw clenched. He looked like he wanted to shout, but for a heartbeat he only stared at her: small, soaked, stubborn, breathing, alive.
Something in his face softened.
Then anger covered it again.
"You reckless little—"
Before Lily could answer, he sat down hard on the grassy bank, pulled her with him, and turned her firmly across his lap.
Lily barely had time to understand what was happening.
Then he gave her one sharp swat over her skirt. The sound cracked through the quiet clearing. And for one impossible second, the whole lake seemed to freeze.
Then the boy snapped, barely holding his temper, "Bad. Very bad."
Lily went stiff.
He swatted her again.
She shrieked, more from outrage than pain, twisting wildly. "What you doing? No! Bad boy! No punish me! Let go!"
"Not until you apologize."
"For what?" Lily shouted. "Defending my lake kingdom?"
"For making me think you drowned," he growled. "For attacking someone bigger than you. For charging a stranger with a weapon when he had a sword heavier than you are."
He gave her one more firm swat, and this time Lily stopped struggling for half a heartbeat.
"If I had been someone worse," he said, voice sharp with frustration, "what do you think would have happened? What if I had been a bandit? A murderer? A real monster? Did you think of that at all?"
Lily did think of it then, a little. Unfortunately, thinking did not make her less angry.
Her face burned. Her pride burned worse. Somewhere above them, Mister Terminator gave a low warning cluck, and Lily remembered that she was not merely a girl being scolded by some arrogant lake-invading boy.
She was president, and she had citizens.
"I submit," she snapped, kicking once. "I submit, but I do not apologize to berry thief. Never. Let me go or I release chicken army."
The boy paused.
His grip remained firm, but his voice turned flat with disbelief.
"Your what?"
Lily lifted her chin as much as she could from her undignified position.
"My chicken army."
For one second, nothing happened. Then an acorn struck the boy on the side of the head, and he froze.
Slowly, he looked up and saw that the clearing had gathered around him.
Chickens stood in a tightening half-circle, many of them wearing scraps of bark, hide, or twine armor. Mister Terminator stood at the front, flower crown crooked, eyes hard as polished stones. Sergeant Flap and Sir Pecksalot flanked him like officers preparing for war.
Beyond them, rabbits had crept closer through the grass, noses twitching. Mice peered from the clay town, one dragging a pebble as if it were a siege stone. Farther back, rats watched from the roots and shadows, one holding a little twig in both paws with suspicious purpose. Squirrels lined the branches overhead, acorns ready. Even the deer had stepped from the tree line.
Then the foxes appeared, five of them. Scar stood among them, red and silent at the edge of the forest, with Sleemo half-hidden beside him.
The boy stared. The animals were not attacking, not yet, but they were watching him together. As if waiting for one word from the girl in his lap.
His hand loosened on Lily's back.
"What are you?" he asked quietly. "Are you controlling them with some kind of druidic magic?"
Lily twisted free enough to sit upright on his lap, hair wild, cheeks flushed, violet eyes blazing with offended dignity.
"It called power of friendship," she said. "You meanie."
Then she grabbed his head in both hands and slammed her forehead into his.
Crack.
The sound of skull meeting skull snapped through the clearing.
Several animals jumped back. A squirrel dropped its acorn. A hen flapped in alarm. Lily saw stars explode across her vision as pain burst through her forehead.
The boy cursed and fell backward into the grass. Lily fell with him, and for a moment, both of them lay there stunned.
Then Lily, dizzy and triumphant, pushed herself up onto his chest and planted both hands there as if pinning down a dangerous criminal.
The boy stared up at her, one hand pressed to his forehead.
"What the hell was that for?" he groaned. "You insane girl."
Lily swayed slightly, stars still dancing in her eyes, but she forced herself to sit taller on his chest. Around them, the animals closed in with solemn importance, as if the full legal authority of Lily's Lake had finally arrived.
"I victorious," she declared. "Bad boy, you are now mine."
The boy blinked, then his eyes narrowed.
"Oh?" he said, his hands catching her by the waist before she could scramble away. "Who said you won anything?"
Lily squeaked.
His hands were huge compared to her, wrapping around her easily and holding her steady as if she weighed no more than a troublesome sack of feathers. For one startled moment, she could only stare down at him, horribly aware of his strength, his smug smile, and the fact that she had not planned what to do if the prisoner simply decided not to stay arrested.
Her face went hot, not because she was scared, obviously not. It was rage, probably rage, maybe embarrassment. Possibly both, she wasn't sure.
"Let go, bad boy," she snapped, and slapped his chest in revenge.
Unfortunately, the slap did nothing. Worse, the whole situation was so ridiculous that a small, unwilling giggle escaped her before she could stop it.
His smirk widened.
Lily's dignity prepared to die, but before she could answer, the chickens panicked, not loudly at first. That was what made it worse. The hens went still, their heads turning toward the forest. Mister Terminator gave one sharp warning cluck from the cabin roof, and every animal in the clearing seemed to hear it.
Then came the sound of heavy hoofbeats, coming fast, too close already.
Lily froze.
The boy heard them too. His expression changed at once, irritation giving way to recognition.
Branches snapped beyond the living wall. Birds burst from the trees. Rabbits vanished into the grass. Deer fled into the shadows. Even the foxes drew back, silent and low.
A black horse broke through the trees first, riderless, reins trailing. The boy's horse. It slowed near the clearing, tossing its head at the sight of the chickens, the mice, the wild girl, and its master lying flat on his back in the grass.
Then a larger second horse followed.
It moved like a warhorse, broad-chested and iron-nerved, forcing its way through the undergrowth as if the forest itself had no right to stand in its path. Upon its back sat a man in black.
He was enormous.
The horse had barely stopped before the old man swung down from the saddle. He landed with a heavy thud that Lily felt through the ground. Black cloak, black leather, black mail half-hidden beneath worn travel layers. A massive sword rose over one shoulder, its hilt dark and brutal above his back.
His hood was pulled back, revealing an old hard face. Short gray hair, a shaved face, with a hard jaw. And distinctively five long scars raked the right side of his face, three crossing over one eye without seeming to have damaged it. His eyes were deep ocean-blue, cold and sharp beneath his brow.
Lily forgot to breathe.
He looked like a grandfather, if grandfathers were made of iron, carried swords bigger than children, and had spent their lives killing things in dark forests. There was nothing soft about him. No smile, no warmth on the surface. Only weight, discipline, and danger.
And yet something about him felt strangely safe in the worst possible way. Not kind, not gentle, but solid like a wall in a storm.
The old man looked down at them.
At the boy, soaked from the lake and half-dressed, with one hand still at Lily's waist.
At Lily, wet, wild-haired, flushed with fury, and sitting on his chest as if she had conquered him by law.
At the animals gathered around them like a very confused court.
His scarred face did not move.
"Boy," he said, voice low and rough as stone dragged over iron. "What is the meaning of this?"
The boy suddenly remembered exactly how this looked.
He pushed Lily aside in a hurry, not hard enough to hurt her, but with far more haste than courtesy. She landed in the grass with an offended squeak and rolled once before sitting up, furious.
The boy sprang to one knee, then stood quickly between her and the old man, broad back turned toward Lily.
"Master Reinheart," he said at once, "it is not what it looks like."
Reinheart's gaze moved slowly from the boy's flushed face, to the water dripping from his clothes, to Lily sitting behind him in the grass with her hair stuck to her cheeks.
One gray brow lifted.
"I was subduing her," the boy said quickly. "After she attacked me. I swear."
"Subduing her," Reinheart repeated.
The boy winced slightly at the way he said it.
Behind him, Lily scrambled to her feet like a witness rushing to the front of a courtroom.
"He steal food first," she snapped. "Then throw me in lake. Then be rude. Then spank me."
Reinheart's eyes shifted to her.
Lily stopped talking.
For one terrible second, those cold blue eyes made her feel very small. The boy cleared his throat. "You see, this girl—"
"I am not this girl," Lily cut in, though her voice cracked a little. She lifted her chin, trying to gather whatever dignity remained after being thrown, soaked, scolded, and tossed aside like wet laundry. "I am Lily. Lily of Lake."
Both males looked at her.
The boy looked irritated, though some confusion still lingered in his face.
"You see what I am dealing with?" he said.
Lily glared at his back. "You dealing with justice."
Reinheart remained unreadable.
The boy exhaled sharply, then seemed to remember basic manners existed.
"My name is Art," he said, turning his head toward her. "Because, as anyone with eyes can tell, this body is a piece of art."
Lily stared at him. Then at Reinheart. Then back at Art.
"No way that real name," she said.
Art's expression flattened.
"It is Art."
"Suspicious."
"It is my name."
"Sounds fake."
"It is not fake."
"And him?" Lily pointed at the old man. "Reinheart? Also sounds fake. Like boss name."
Reinheart did not react. Art's jaw tightened. "That is Master Reinheart. You will show respect."
Lily decided not to fight them on the matter. Not because she believed them, but because the old man looked like the kind of person who could defeat arguments by standing still.
Behind her, Mister Terminator gave a low cluck, as if reminding everyone that Lily was not alone.
A brave young hen darted forward and pecked Reinheart's boot. The old man looked down, and the hen immediately fled.
Then a squirrel hurled an acorn from a branch. It struck Reinheart's shoulder, bounced off his cloak, and fell into the grass. Reinheart turned his head slowly toward the tree.
The squirrel vanished.
One mouse from New Town lifted a pebble as if considering heroism, then thought better of it and slipped back into a doorway. The rabbits were already gone. The foxes had melted into the brush. Even the deer had abandoned the edge of the clearing. The rats were nowhere to be seen.
Within moments, Lily's mighty animal army had become a distant audience of cowards.
Only Mister Terminator remained close by, though even he looked suddenly very interested in not coming closer.
Lily swallowed.
The old man stood before her like a black mountain. Art stood beside him, taller, stronger, and still damp from the lake. The horses snorted behind them. The living wall rustled softly in the summer wind.
For the first time in years, there were humans in her kingdom, real humans. And none of them looked as if they were going away.
Lily clenched her small fists at her sides and tried very hard not to step back.
Reinheart looked from her to Art. Then, in that low, dangerous voice, he said, "Explain."
Art exhaled.
Lily stood alone in the grass, wet, shaking, furious, and suddenly very aware that her army had deserted her.
And all around Lily's Lake, the forest watched.