Tobias lowers himself slowly onto the moss beside the root, knees drawn up to his chest. The tiny figure watches him — violet eyes unblinking, head still tilted — and then the soundless laugh ripples again, warmer this time, like something approving. It uncrosses its legs and stands, barely as tall as his thumb from nail to knuckle. One bark-coloured hand lifts and points — not down the path, but off to the left, where the roots of an ancient oak fan out like dark ribs in the soil. Tobias squints. Between two of the largest roots, a soft glow pulses, greenish and rhythmic, almost like breathing. The fairy steps from the root onto his knee as if his leg were a perfectly ordinary bridge, and waits. Its weight is nothing at all. Its violet eyes hold steady, patient and faintly amused, as though this is a game it has played many times before — and fully expects him to understand.