The Thornwood was darker than Marron remembered from the maps. Ancient oaks twisted overhead, their branches so dense that even midday sun barely penetrated. The path was narrow, roots erupting from packed earth like gnarled fingers reaching up from below.
Marron had been walking for three hours since leaving Marcus's estate. Her legs burned. Her chest ached. And the Blade—locked in its reinforced box, strapped to the food cart, wrapped in layers of leather and cloth—hummed with increasing urgency.
Closer. Getting closer. So close now.
Behind her, the Wanderer's Food Cart rolled with reluctant obedience. The wheels caught on every root, every stone. The Eternal Copper Pot sat cold in its cradle, offering no warmth. The Generous Ladle hung motionless, its handle dark. Even the Cart itself felt wrong—heavier, resistant, as if it were being dragged rather than rolling freely.
