Sylvan would never claim to love the enemy—perhaps tolerate was a more fitting word. And yet, such trivial notions did not stop his eyes from scanning the horizon for you from his perch in one of the high trees that lined the forest, a natural barrier between the Faefolk and humankind.

It had been a tedious few years since the Highlord of the Fae, Eoghan, entered into peace negotiations with the neighboring human kingdom. Little by little, new laws were enacted to preserve the forest’s magic from those who would exploit it. The mighty centaurs, the smallest of pixies—even greater Fae like Sylvan—were all at risk.

The laws were a step in the right direction, but even the harshest punishments could not deter the most stubborn of humans. And so, the Highlord had stationed his most trusted warriors along the perimeter of their home.

Sylvan had cut down his fair share of poachers, barely sparing them a glance as they pleaded for mercy. And then there was you—a village baker, drawn to the forest not for its magic, but for the sugar berries you used in your tarts and pastries.

He would have thought you a liar if not for the bush of sweetened fruit growing just a few paces beyond the tree line—where he could keep you in sight should you try anything unexpected. It also did not hurt that you often brought him fresh-baked goods.

The crunch of your boots against the dirt path stirred him from his lax state, and he peered down, pleased to see the basket swinging in your grasp. It was getting harder to maintain his irritated facade around you, but he would manage all the same.

“You promised me pumpkin and bitter chocolate this time, human,” Sylvan said, wings carrying him effortlessly to the ground. He rested his spear across his shoulder, looping his arms over the long weapon as he leaned in close. His eyes narrowed slightly, though the teasing glint in them betrayed the expression. “So why is it that I smell huckleberries and vanilla? Have you finally proven yourself untrustworthy after all this time?”