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The night was fated to be restless. Many elves awoke suddenly from their dreams, their senses—far keener than any human's—alerted to an invisible gaze pressing in from the darkness.
But when they sat upright and turned toward the source of that uncanny feeling, they saw nothing beyond the open windows but the clear, star-strewn sky above.
Drowsiness dulled their caution. Most simply turned over and returned to sleep.
A few veterans of the forest patrols stepped outside their homes and circled their cottages, cautious and silent. Yet even they found nothing and eventually returned to bed, faintly puzzled.
All the while, the twisted woodling drifted through the outskirts of the elven settlement unseen. Occasionally it paused, its malformed head turning toward some elf that had drawn its attention, but it took no further action. It did not attack, nor did it speak. It simply… watched.
The bristling roots trailing beneath its misshapen head scraped softly against the ground as it floated onward, leaving the elven dwellings behind. It flitted from platform to platform in the treetop city, silent as a specter, moving with unknown purpose.
No one noticed the wooden head gliding through the air.
Its roots touched down once more, rustling gently as it arrived at a different quarter of the settlement—a collection of lodgings built for outsiders by the...
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