Atticus Maple crouched at the green river's edge and counted ribs through thin shirts. She had come looking for stragglers and found a whole camp of them, twenty people huddled in huts of bamboo and salvaged stick. They were her people — too human for the courts, too fairy for the towns. Leading them was never the plan. Keeping them alive was. The shimmering water marked the border. Cross it, and the fairy courts could rewrite your name before sundown. Stay, and the human patrols would come with chains. The camp sat pinned between, starving. A thin woman pressed something into Atticus's hands: a strange spotted cow, a slab of red meat grown right into its hide. The last of their food, passed mouth to mouth for weeks. "We saved a portion for whoever came," the woman whispered. Atticus pushed it back. Then she saw the small green fairies hovering above the water — leaf-clad, watching. Scouts. The court already knew this camp existed. Hours, maybe, before the rewriting began. "Pack what you can carry," Atticus said, rising. "We move to the human side tonight. Loud. Visible. Witnessed." She stared at the little fairies until they darted away. The camp was hers now, whether she had wanted it or not.