Cyrus had made peace with his goat blood. Now he wanted to use it. His father's horns curled from his head, and his hooves knew the woods. But knowing the woods meant nothing if he could not gather the satyrs who lived there. They roamed in small bands, hidden by the thick gray mist. Cyrus climbed a ridge and called into the fog. No one answered. The mist swallowed his voice whole. He walked for hours. Twice he heard drums and hooves nearby. Both times he ran toward the sound and found only wet ferns and empty trees. The bands moved before he could reach them. He could not lead satyrs he could not find. He sank down against a black stone wall and realized it was his own cottage. The dark stones and warm windows were the only fixed thing in the shifting woods. A snake slid across his hoof. It did not bite. Its skin held bright bands of green and rust, patterned like woven cloth. The serpent lifted its head and flicked its tongue toward the treeline. Then it slid off a few feet and waited, watching him. "You want me to follow," Cyrus said. He had nothing better. He stood and followed the snake through the mist. It led him to a willow, but no ordinary tree. Flames ran along its hanging branches without burning them. The fire glowed orange through the fog like a lantern the size of a house. The mist could hide sound. It could not hide light this bright. Cyrus understood. He gathered dry branches and built them against the willow's trunk. He cupped his hands and lit a torch from its living flame. The fire caught and threw a wide orange glow into the gray air. He climbed the ridge again and swung the torch in slow circles above his head. He waited. His arms ached. Then, far off, a light answered. A single flame swung back and forth through the mist. Another answered from the opposite slope. A third glowed to the north. The scattered bands had seen his fire, and they were signaling back. Horns sounded. Real ones this time, drawing closer instead of fleeing. Satyrs stepped out of the fog one by one, torches raised, hooves crunching the leaves. They gathered at the burning willow and stared at the goat-boy who had called them from the gray. For the first time, Cyrus could see every band at once. But the faces around the fire were not friendly. They were wary. An old satyr with a broken horn pushed to the front and jabbed a finger at Cyrus. "You lit a fire the whole forest can see," he said. "You called us together. So did our enemies who watch these woods. Now they know exactly where we are." The satyrs muttered and gripped their spears. Cyrus had found his tribe. He had also shown himself to whatever hunted them.