Tobias leaves the note where it lies — some things are better left unread when the path is already calling. He steps past the swaying lantern onto the narrow track, where the trees close in on both sides and the snow gives way to bare, moss-cushioned earth. His breath still clouds white, but the air here smells different: less pine, more something earthy and old, like turned soil after rain. The path winds downward, and with each step the dark thickens until the lantern behind him is only a smear of amber in the distance. Then, on a gnarled root directly across his path, something small is sitting — no bigger than his fist, legs crossed, watching him with two points of violet light. It tilts its head. A soundless laugh seems to ripple the air around it. Tobias stops, unsure whether to speak first or wait.