Silent as wraiths, they appeared across the
glen. As if they’d simply sparked into
existence in the shade of the foliage.
Little bodies, some pale, some black as
night, some scaled. Mostly concealed, save
for spindly fingers and wide, unblinking eyes.
Elide gasped. “The Little Folk.”
Elide hadn’t seen a whisper of the Little Folk
since the days before Terrasen fell. Then, it
had been flashes and rustling within
Oakwald’s ancient shade. Never so many,
never so openly.
Or as open as they would ever allow
themselves to be.
The half dozen or so who had gathered
across the clearing kept mostly hidden behind
root and rock and cluster of leaves. None of
the males moved, though Fenrys’s ears cocked
toward them.