A trace of relief shivers through my breath, only to be rapidly overtaken by my hellish reality. “You need to kill me before Vogel comes,” I insist. “He’s tracking me again. He’ll track me right here—”

Another violent blow to my ribs silences me as the oak-branch-festooned soldier draws back her staff and barks out something in the Fae tongue.

Black Witch! A torrent of the Forest’s fury lashes out alongside her belligerant words and I realize that it was likely the trees that led these Dryads to me.

“Have done with it and destroy me!” I cry at the woods and the Dryads both as Vogel’s Shadow tightens around my power. “Vogel’s forces are coming!”

The angry woman pummels my side again and yells something harsh.

I force my head toward her, not caring when the rough net scrapes at my face. “You think I asked for this?” I yank my head back toward the fierce-eyed young man, unable to hold back my devastation. “You think I want to be this evil power?!” I rage, spittle flying from my mouth as Shadow power spasms through me. “I don’t! And I tried to fight them!”

Indecision flickers in the rangy soldier’s eyes, but then the gray glow to my vision intensifies as Vogel forces my mouth into a chilling snarl. The Dryad’s eyes widen with horror, his livid expression returning. He waves everyone forward and, once again, we move through the Forest.

“Where are you taking me?” I eventually ask him, my voice constricted by the descent of a terrified resignation.

He glares at me, his face tightening with a look of brutal resolve. “To die.”

We journey deeper into the woods, and I catch glimpses of constellations shimmering overhead as I struggle to brace myself to meet my end.

Northwest, I grief-strickenly consider. We’re moving northwest.

A new Dryad has moved into view, talking in low tones with the flower-haired soldier with the branch light, who I’ve named Flora for her graceful ways and surprisingly gentle expression.

The new Dryad doesn’t seem gentle at all. She’s streamlined and muscular, her hue a pale mint, fanning iridescent mushrooms for hair. Green-glowing zigzags mark the sides of the soldier’s face like verdant lightning. She wears pale birch bark armor, two branch-staff weapons strapped to her back, and like the others, she has the imprint of a tree on the palm of her right hand. Her bearing is all compact energy, her expression predatory, a silvery panther slinking beside her. When she glances at me, there is no mercy in her eyes, and I name her Lightning.