Sage pressed her fingers to the antlers rising from her red curls and asked the question Gaia could never answer. "What am I?" She stood at the top of the moss-wrapped tower where she had grown up, in the wild woods of Wyldmere. Below, the forest stretched green in every direction. Somewhere out there was the truth about her kind. In here, there was only Gaia, and Gaia had run out of answers. Gaia climbed the tower stairs slowly. Ivy trailed from her flowered gown, and small blossoms opened in her dark hair as she moved. She was the only mother Sage had ever known. She had found this tower, raised Sage inside it, and loved her without fail. But her pale green face tightened whenever Sage touched her antlers. "You are my daughter," Gaia said. "That has always been enough." "It isn't enough for me." Sage turned from the window. "You call me Faun. Forest Spirit. But you say the words like you're guessing. Nobody else in Wyldmere has these." She tapped one antler. "Not the elves. Not the Fae, and not even the hunters. Just me." Gaia sat on the stone bench and folded her hands. For a long moment she said nothing. Then she reached beneath her gown and drew out something wrapped in dried leaves. "I found this the day I found you," she said. "I knew the day would come you’d want it so I saved it." Sage crossed the room and knelt. Gaia peeled back the leaves. Inside lay a necklace inside the gem lay green wood, its edges shaped like tiny antler tines. It was cold, and it hummed faintly against Sage's palm. "Where did it come from?" Sage asked. "It was around your neck. There were others like you once, far to the north, past the black river. I never went there. I was afraid of what I'd learn." Gaia's voice cracked. "But you deserve to know who you are." Sage closed her fingers around the necklace. The hum grew stronger, pulling faintly, like a thread drawn tight toward the north. "Then that's where I'm going," Sage said. Gaia's eyes filled, but she did not argue. She had raised a girl who always wanted more, and she had always known this day would come. She pressed her palm to Sage's cheek. "The black river is a week’s walk," she said. "The woods past it are not mine. I cannot protect you there." Sage stood. She understood. She pulled on her hide boots and smoothed her emerald gown. The tower had been her whole world for eighteen years. Now it felt small. "You gave me a home," Sage said. "You raised me as your own but I must go find out who I am." Sage would spend one last night with Gaia and at dawn she would set out on her adventure.

Dawn came pale over the tower. Sage tightened her boots and slung her pack over one shoulder. The necklace hummed at her throat, pulling north. She reached for the great wooden door. "Wait." Gaia caught her arm. Blossoms trembled in the woman's dark hair. Her pale green hand held tight, the way it had held Sage's smaller hand for eighteen years. "I have something for you. Don't leave yet." Sage stopped, though every part of her strained toward the door. She loved Gaia. She also could not stand still one more moment. "I'm ready to go," she said. "I know." Gaia's eyes shone. "That's why you need these." She turned and hurried down the mossy steps. Sage waited. Wind slipped through the doorway and stirred her red curls. Then she heard soft paws on stone. Gaia returned, and two creatures came with her. First padded a silver fox, its coat luminous gray, its paws dark as wet earth. Amber eyes fixed on Sage, alert and steady. Behind it walked a strange deer. Its body glowed green, patterned with golden leaves. Wings like a dragonfly's rose from its back. Its antlers branched into living twigs, small leaves budding along the tips. Sage's breath caught. The deer's antlers looked like her own. "The fox will guide you," Gaia said. "He knows the woods past the black river better than I do. He will find safe paths and warn you of danger." She rested her hand on the fox's head. The fox pressed against her palm, then trotted to Sage and sat at her boots. Sage knelt and touched its fur. It was warm and soft. The fox leaned into her hand as if it already knew her. "And the deer?" Sage asked. Gaia's smile wavered. "He carries you when your legs give out. His wings are strong. He is old magic, older than this tower." She paused. "Look at his crown, Sage." Sage rose and stepped close to the winged deer. Its green antlers curved just like hers. The same tines. The same branching shape. Her hand drifted to her own antlers, then back to his. "He's like me," she whispered. "He is part of where you come from," Gaia said. "I found him wandering the day I found you. I never knew what he was. Maybe the ones in the north will." Sage's heart pounded. Her whole life, she had wanted proof she was not alone. Now it stood before her, breathing, real. "Why didn't you show me before?" she asked. "I was afraid you'd leave sooner." Gaia's voice broke. She pressed her forehead to Sage's. "Go. Find them. But take my gifts, so I know you are not alone out there." Sage wrapped her arms around Gaia. Then she stepped through the door. The fox trotted ahead. The winged deer followed, its antlers matching hers. For the first time, Sage walked north with living pieces of her mystery beside her.

For seven days Sage walked north. She slept little. Each night she stopped only long enough to cook a small meal, then rose and moved again. The fox trotted ahead, choosing safe paths. The winged deer followed close behind. On the seventh day, dark trees thinned, and the river lay before her. Sage stopped. The water was the darkest blue she had ever seen. It stretched wide, farther than she could throw a stone, and ran on in both directions without end. She stood at the muddy edge and felt her hope sink. "How do I cross this?" she whispered. She walked along the bank for an hour, searching for a bridge or a shallow place. She found none. The river only grew wider. She came back to where the fox waited and dropped her pack in the mud. Sage pulled off her boots. She waded in. The cold bit her legs at once. She pushed deeper, then kicked off and swam. Ten strokes out, the current caught her. It dragged her sideways. Her gown pulled heavy at her limbs. Water filled her mouth. She fought back toward the bank and crawled onto the mud, coughing, shaking. "I can't," she said. Her voice broke. "It's too much." The fox pressed its nose to her cheek. Then it turned and looked at the winged deer. Sage followed its gaze. The deer stepped closer. Its green antlers curved like her own. Its dragonfly wings caught the light and shivered. Gaia's words came back to her. He carries you when your legs give out. His wings are strong. Sage rose. Her hands trembled. She had ridden nothing like this before. She gripped the deer's shoulder and climbed onto its back. The fox leapt up before her and settled against her chest. She wrapped her arms around all of them and held tight. "Please," she said. "Take us across." The deer's wings opened wide. They beat once, twice, and lifted. Sage's stomach dropped as the ground fell away. Wind roared past her ears. Below, the dark river slid by, endless and cold. She pressed her face against the deer's warm neck and did not look down. The far bank rose to meet them. The deer set down hard on new soil. Sage slid off and fell to her knees. She was across. She had crossed the black river. She looked up. These woods were different. The trees stood taller, their bark pale as bone.