Halfway across the first span, she noticed eyes tracking them—scores of them. Elves paused in mid-task, hands stilling on rope, on broom, on harp string. Some leaned against balustrades of braided vine, half-lit by lanterns, pupils glowing faintly in the luminosity. Their expressions varied: wonder from a few, trepidation from most, outright suspicion from a hardened handful wearing bark-plate armor at the shoulder.
But something else lived behind those gazes—hope, maybe? She couldn't parse it. They didn't speak, yet every tilt of chin, every tightening of a hand on a railing, seemed to ask the same question: Will this aberration hold or shatter?
