Two Paths from the Foxfire
Bramble breathes on a heap of fallen silver leaves and they kindle into foxfire — cool green flames that give light and no heat, crackling softly like an audience settling down.
By its glow he draws two lines in the moss with one black claw.
“Deep-wood road,” he says, tracing the first, which wanders. “Three days as the fox trots. Riddle-gates, moon-moths, a river with a temper. At its end, the Elder Willow, and the truth about the queen of thorns. Truth is slow, but it kills nothing and it cannot be stolen back.”
“Thorn Road,” he says, tracing the second, which runs straight as a scar. “One day, if nothing eats you. At its end, briars, wolves, her citadel — and, if my nose is honest, the Storm Pearl itself. Quick and bold, and the price of failing is the whole game.”
Sera turns to you, foxfire dancing green in her dark eyes, the grey streak on her flank looking bigger than it did this morning. “Together,” she says. “Whichever it is. Choose, Madison.”