Revel

One night a year, the door in the old wood stands open. Every sensible soul in Elmstead stays home.

Rafe Ashby only went back for his axe. Thirty-three, broad-shouldered and hard-muscled from fifteen years of felling timber, tanned olive skin, tousled near-black hair and a jaw dark with stubble, he has never been a man who listens for things. But there is music coming out of the Hollin tonight, and it sounds like it is being played for him.

At the heart of the wood, amber lanterns hang from the gnarled branches of an oak older than any parish, a full moon rides over the trees, a ring of tiny gold lights burns in the grass, and red leaves fall through the low silver mist. The revel has a lord: tall, pale and powerfully built, long silver-white hair falling past his shoulders, pointed ears and a thin crown of dark branches tined like antlers. It also has a huntsman: massive, deep brown skin, shaved head, short black beard and a wide engraved gold band on one great arm, who claims he has been listening to Rafe's axe for three autumns.

They are very old, and very patient, and they do not play tricks on their guests. They tell him the rules plainly. He can walk away at any time. Or he can step into the ring and play their game, where the forfeits are paid in kisses and clothes, and nothing is ever taken that isn't freely given.

The only other rule is simple. Don't eat anything at a fae table. Not unless you mean to stay.