Firewood had been left — old and dry, stacked near the far wall. She didn't question why. Labyrinths had their own internal logic, their constructs and their provisions arranged by whoever had built them for purposes that sometimes aligned with the entrant's needs and sometimes didn't.
She built a fire. She sat with it. She let her body have fifteen minutes of stillness before she took inventory of her actual state.
Her right shoulder had taken an impact from the seventh spider. She could feel the bruise deepening — not serious, but in twelve hours it would be stiff. Her calves ached from the sustained balance work of fighting on uneven surfaces without visual input. Her inner garments were damp with exertion. Her hair needed attention.
The pond was there.
