Brother Ozzy climbed the ladder of the old stone tower before dawn. He needed to see which way the rot moved first. From the top, he scanned the fields below. He had sworn to cut down the demon lord before its filth touched the monastery walls. But he could not strike what he could not find. To the east, his pine crosses stood in a line along the wall, scarlet twine bright against the dark wood. They still held. The burnt field two over still lay black and quiet. The wards had bought him time, not answers. Then he saw it. A snow tiger walked the ridge to the north, far from any cold mountain it belonged to. Its white coat was streaked with something dark. It moved wrong, too slow, too steady, like it was being pulled. Behind it, the grass yellowed in a wide path. The corruption had a road now, and it was not the road he had guarded. Ozzy gripped the tower stone. North. Not east. The wards he had spent weeks setting faced the wrong way. Villages sat along that northern ridge. Children. Old folk. People who had shared his bread. He climbed down fast. He would ride before sundown, with or without her blessing. The front had chosen itself, and he finally knew where to stand.