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miles passed. As the forested hills gave way
to steeper inclines, the boulders larger, the
rocks and trees broken in spots.
“From the ancient wars between the forest-
spirits,” Gavriel whispered to Elide when he
noticed her frowning at a hillside full of felled
trunks and splintered stone. “Some are still
waged by them, wholly unaware and
unconcerned with the affairs of any realm but
this.”
Rowan had never seen the race of ethereal
beings far more ancient and secretive than
even the Little Folk. But at his mountain
home, set high in the range that they strode
toward, he’d sometimes heard the shattering
of rocks and trees on dark, moonless nights.
When there was not a whisper of wind on the
air, nor any storm to cause them.
So close—only twenty or so miles to the
mountain house he’d built. He’d planned to