THE BLUE DEW FAERIE FLEW QUICKLY AWAY FROM THE YOUNG BOY WITH HIS FRIGHTENING FURRY CREATURE. As she made her way farther and farther into the Moors, the sun set farther and farther into the horizon, releasing hues of brilliant pinks, purples, and blues. The sky grew darker, and the sounds of nature became louder. There were the hoots of owls, the cawing of crows, and the buzzing drone of bugs as they went from flower to flower. Behind her, the trees that provided a natural barrier to her world faded into the distance, but bigger, older ones came into view. Their trunks ranged in color from dark brown to light gray. They rose high into the sky, creating a canopy that provided a roof of sorts for the Moors below. Within the canopy, birds called to one another while squirrels raced from branch to branch, undaunted by the height.

The faerie moved quickly along. She passed a large pond where a group of faeries splashed about, sending water droplets glittering into the air. Waving, she continued on, flying up over a hill and down through a small glen. She veered to the right at a large tree that was split in two, and made her way through a field of bright red flowers that stretched on for nearly ten tree lengths. Beyond that was another pond, this one murkier, with a dark cave at one end that was home to a family of mudgeons. She ducked her head so as not to make eye contact. The tiny creatures —with their big ears, and foreheads that were always wrinkled, as they tended to worry about everything— were sweet, but they were a bit too relaxed in their housekeeping for her taste. The dew faerie’s wings beat faster and faster.

Finally, she arrived in a beautiful wooded grove, the Faerie Mound. In the very heart of the Moors, the Mound was a special place to all who lived there. Imbued with magic, the Faerie Mound practically pulsed with energy drawn from the creatures and flora that inhabited it. Naturally circular, it consisted of large peat bogs, several small streams, and, taking up the most room, a large tree that sat perched above everything. Landing on a small rock on the edge of a bog, the dew faerie looked around and smiled, happy to be home and to see so many familiar faces.

There was the grunt of a wallerbog as he sank his ungainly body into the muddy bog to join several others. The creatures all had long pointy ears that hung out from the sides of their heads and thick antennae fringed with pink. Together, they sat, their slobber dripping into the bog, creating more mud, which helped it survive.

Farther down from the bog, purple fishlike creatures with huge eyes and large mouths filtered dirty water through their netlike fins, making it fresh and clean once more. Nearby, a group of stone faeries, gray hairless creatures that looked like the rocks they worked with, kept themselves busy arranging stones in the now clean stream to help the water flow. Everywhere in the wooded grove, the creatures worked together to keep nature balanced and in harmony.

In the middle of it all sat the Rowan Tree. Enormous and stately, the tree’s trunk twisted up into thick, long branches and down into a mossy maze of perfectly curled roots. Shiny leaves covered the branches, and when the moon caught them just right, they cast a green light that shone through the grove. Sitting against the sturdy trunk was a beautiful human-sized faerie, her baby cradled in one arm. The faerie’s raven-colored hair shone in the moonlight, and her expansive wings gracefully rested over them both, like a feathered blanket. She hummed a lullaby and raised one hand above her, making night blossoms suddenly unfurl on the branches overhead. Then she made the leaves and flowers dance, swaying to the tune of her song, as her daughter was lulled to sleep.

“Hermia,” called a warm voice behind her. Suddenly, a tall, handsome faerie appeared by her side. It was her husband, Lysander, his green eyes gleaming as brightly as the stars above them.

“Shhh,” she chided gently. “She’s fast asleep.”

“Ah, that she is.” He smiled and tilted his head, basking in the vision of his sleeping beauty. He bent down to kiss his daughter on the forehead and embrace his wife.

“How did it go?” she asked once he’d settled in next to her against the Rowan Tree.

He sighed, his brow furrowing into a frown. “It didn’t. The humans did not come. I waited at the border until the sun set, and then headed back.”

Hermia mulled over this information, knowing the implications of one more day lost in their efforts for peace. Though most Fair Folk distrusted all humans, having witnessed countless attacks initiated by their kind, Lysander and Hermia believed that they could not judge a whole species on the actions of a few. That peace between the races was possible. In fact, for years, they had forged relationships with local farmers and shepherds. These folks were proof that there were humans who appreciated nature as much as they did. In fact, the seeds for their home, the Rowan Tree, had come as a gift from one family who’d thanked them for helping with their crops after a drought. And with just a touch of their magical coaxing, they had turned the seeds into their splendid abode, a piece of nature revered by all the creatures in the Moors, despite its origins.

However, it seemed their new fragile harmony with humans, as delicate as a twig, was in danger of snapping. Sentries, the twelve-foot-tall tree-like creatures who guarded the border, had alerted the Fair Folk that humans in armor had been poking around the area, which greatly alarmed most of the other faeries. They thought this was a sure sign of a new batch of humans looking to invade and drain the Moors of its riches, the start of a new war. Hoping to break the longstanding cycle of violence, Lysander had decided to go to the border to initiate peace talks.

“What did Balthazar make of it?” Hermia asked, referencing one of the towering border guards.

“He was concerned. They have been coming to the great waterfall every day at the same time for a week. It is strange they suddenly stopped their visits.”

Hermia didn’t respond. The silence was thick between them, but they each knew what was on the other’s mind: The foolish hope that perhaps these humans had merely wanted to explore the Moors, or that if their mission was malicious, they had abandoned it. The fear that they had missed the opportunity to change the course of history, to create a peaceful environment in which their daughter would grow. The undeniable foreboding tension in the air.

“Tomorrow,” Lysander said, breaking the silence. “I will return tomorrow.”

“And I will go with you,” Hermia added. “I need to be there. Maleficent will be in good hands here with the others.”

A mild wind breezed through the branches. Hermia rested her head on Lysander’s shoulder; he rested his head on hers. And with that, despite the heaviness in their hearts, they joined their daughter in a calm sleep under the rustling leaves of the Rowan Tree.

They heard the screeching birds first. Then the screaming.

“War! We’re at war!” a stone faerie cried.

“The humans have attacked!” a water faerie yelled.

Both Hermia and Lysander jumped up, their wings unfurling instinctively. It was still nighttime, and the sky was now a starless black. Faeries and animals alike raced around on the leaf-covered land, through the burbling streams, and in the velvety air. Hermia looked down at the precious bundle in her arms. Surprisingly, the chaos had not awoken Maleficent.

Three disheveled pixies flew past them in a hurry.

“What’s happened?” Hermia stood in front of them, blocking their way.

“The humans are here. At the border. A whole army of them!” one, called Knotgrass, shouted hysterically.

“With weapons!” said a pixie in blue, named Flittle.

“And ugly outfits!” added the smallest, Thistlewit.

Her eyes worried, Hermia turned to Lysander as the pixies flew away.

“There may still be time.” Lysander answered her unspoken question. “If we can just reason with them…”

“Yes,” Hermia agreed hurriedly. “We need to get to the border.” She held the sleeping infant closer to her as they flew down to the lush area directly underneath the Rowan Tree. Searching the mossy inlet, they started calling their friends’ names:

“Adella? Finch? Sweetpea?”

“Robin!” Hermia cried as she saw the small, sprightly faerie buzzing toward them. Robin had been a family friend for ages. With a childlike spirit, he was always good at telling silly jokes or coming up with games, a much-needed ray of brightness and positivity during the dark times that too often plagued the Moors. That night his elf-like features formed a grave expression. It was the most serious they had ever seen him.

“There you three are! We’ve been looking everywhere for you, we have,” he announced when he reached them. “The burrow over yonder is acting as a safe haven for those not fighting. Come on, this way, if you please.” He started to fly in the direction from which he’d come.

“No.” Hermia stopped him. “Please, we want Maleficent to go with you to the safe haven, but we will not.”

“We’re heading to the front lines,” Lysander explained.

Robin looked at them for a moment. Then he nodded. He knew about their longstanding efforts to initiate peace —and how much it would mean to them to stop the fighting for good. Arguing with them would only waste time.

“All right, then,” he replied. “But follow me to the burrow on your way there. Don’t think I could hold her myself.”

The faeries flew single file, silent amid the loud disorder around them. Only when Maleficent was kissed by her parents, gently placed inside the cozy burrow, and surrounded by a mélange of colorful creatures cooing over her did any of them speak.

“Thank you,” Lysander said to Robin meaningfully. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

Then he and Hermia swiftly took off into the black night once more, heading toward the loud noises and flashing lights at the border, until they looked like small ravens soaring in the sky.

As soon as they were out of sight, Robin turned to look at the resting baby, her lips slightly parted, her stomach moving with sleepy waves of breath. She did not know her parents had just flown off into danger so that the Moors could thrive once more.

“Keep sleeping, love,” he whispered to her. “We’ll look after you.”