Tobias watches the lantern until it stills, then moves toward where it swayed — a mass of roots where the ceiling presses close to the earth. Between two of them a violet glow pulses once, like a slow heartbeat, and goes dim. He crouches, heart louder than the silence. The moss here is pressed flat in a small circle, as though something sat, or landed, only moments ago. Then he sees it: perched on a root no thicker than his wrist, palm-sized and motionless, is a figure the colour of ash bark. Mossy wisps hang at its shoulders; its eyes are open, violet and steady, fixed entirely on him. Neither of them moves. After a long moment, the figure tips its head — the way a question looks before it becomes a word — then glances deliberately upward through the root-tangle, toward the darkness beyond.