yron Thorn ran through the darkness, dodging from treeto tree. He paused often to watch and listen, clutchingthe monocle that hung from a silver chain around hisneck. A warm breeze was blowing. Cricket and frog song filledthe forest and the blink of fireflies flecked the near and far. Lush,leafy trees hissed and waved in the wind, letting the stars peekthrough. The sounds of Midsummerfest were faint behind him.Cresting a low hill, Byron looked back. The glow of the fires andthe huge dancing shadows of the Woodren, the people of HidingWood

—

centaurs and humans, woodland animals, and Byron’sown people, the satyrs—

leaped and loomed atop SummercrestHill. They were gathered for the shortest night of the year, danc-ing and singing, feasting and playing the music of celebration.Byron’s hand strayed to the silver horn on his head. He rubbedthe sharp tip as one might stroke his chin in thought. The windcame stronger, making the sounds from the firelit hilltop louderfor a moment. Byron frowned and rolled his eyes at the thoughtof Edgar Burcatcher insisting the silver tip was an ornamental capthat Byron was trying—

without success—

to bring into fashion.“Stupid Edgar,” Byron said.And he thought of his friends: Dindra, daughter of the great

Visions

chapter 1

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