Argon knelt at the base of the great willow and pressed his palm to its bark. The carved face of the old woman in the trunk watched him in silence. Inside a hollow root, he tucked a folded letter naming his road and his reason. One person would come looking. One person needed to know where he had gone, and why. He lifted his staff and turned the stone toward the light. The crystal pulsed faint and slow, dimmer than yesterday. His soulmate was still there, but only barely. Each breath he took felt shallow now, like the bond was a thread pulled thin between his ribs. A small fox stepped from the grass, many tails fanned behind it. Its eyes met his and held. It had followed him for three days without sound. Argon believed it saw the fading thread too. He walked to the carved compass set into the stone clearing. He scraped a fresh mark along the rim, another sighting of the sorcerer's trail. The runes pointed north, deeper into colder country. The pattern was clear. The path was clear. Argon stood. The staff dimmed once more in his hand, a soft warning. He shouldered his pack and stepped past the willow, the fox trotting at his heel. The letter was hidden. The road was chosen. Whatever the bond had left, he would spend it walking toward her.