Tobias turns to follow where she points — and finds she has already shifted her hand. The moment his eyes moved, she swiveled, redirecting him away from himself and toward the far curve of the hollow tree's wall. There, where two great roots bow together like a doorframe, a patch of bark looks unlike the rest: smoother, darker, covered in marks so fine they might be writing or might be the rings of very old years made strange. The fairy drops silently from her root-knot and drifts to hang level with the carving, her violet eyes expectant and unblinking. She presses one tiny palm flat against the marks and looks back at Tobias over her shoulder — waiting.