We pull in front of the other hunters, in front of the faerie with the hunting horn, in front of the hounds. They bark excitedly and nip at the horses’ heels, but we don’t slow or falter. We’re just barely at the front of the pack now, still close enough to hear the excited howls and yips and cheers of faeries and hounds alike. Still close enough for them to catch us.

A streak of shadow flickers across our path, slipping under a fallen branch without slowing. Behind us, the faerie horn blows again.

Our horse thunders on, now hot on Isolde’s heels. She’s so close I can see the pads of her little paws as she scurries into the brush, her sharp teeth flashing as she pants for breath, the whites of her eyes blown wide in fear.

“Isolde!” I shout, on the wild chance hearing her name will break the spell. “It’s me! I’m here!” I want to promise I won’t let them hurt her—but that would be lying.

I feel the tension in Olani’s muscles, straining forward as if that can make the horse catch up. If I’m going to break the spell on her, now is the time. I reach for my magic, trying to focus.

Yeah, that’s not happening.

I can’t close my eyes because I have to keep them on Isolde. I can’t filter out the noise around me because I need every cue, every clue to what will happen next. I can’t...

Suddenly, I realize we’ve come around a curve to face a wall of brambles, and for a second, a glimmer of hope lights in my chest. She sprints straight for the thorns, headfirst. In fox form, Isolde is small enough to slip through. I’ll lose her, but so will the hunt.

Then a high-pitched yelp splits the air. Isolde’s paws scrabble in the dirt uselessly, crying and wailing.

She’s stuck.

Stuck in the thorns, Isolde turns toward us, fear in her eyes. We’re getting closer with every frantic heartbeat, every desperate twitch of her tail. She shrieks in pain and terror, and I join in.

Olani draws back with her spear, determination in her smooth movements. This is it, my last chance to do something—anything—to save my sister.

I throw myself off the horse.

I don’t let go of Olani. Instead, I scrabble to hold onto her arms, her sleeves, her hair, anything. I land in a puff of skirts and curses, and a fresh bolt of pain spikes through me.

The fox is still screaming. Olani is still on the horse, but crooked and off-balance. As she falls, she throws the spear in one last desperate attempt, her teeth clenched in determination.

I expect myself to scream, but I’m choking, and all I can hear is the rushing of my own blood. I can’t scream. I can’t move. I can’t believe this is real.

A sudden wind rustles the grass with a flash of russet wings, knocking the spear aside. It’s such a close call that the spear grazes the tip of Isolde’s tail as it crashes into the brambles. Raze swoops lower, circling above us.