Elderwood Thorne knelt at the old stone altar before dawn, brushing frost from its faint, glowing runes. For forty years she had tended this forest. For nearly as long, she had waited here for the white stag to choose her. The leaves were already turning. She had one season left, and the forest was too wide to search by guesswork. She pressed her palm to the cold stone and asked, quietly, for help. The answer came in water. She walked to the shimmering pool tucked between the rocks and looked in. The surface rippled without wind. In the bright, moving water she saw a tree gouged deep by antlers, and beside it, a small silver shape watching her back. She followed the vision through the woods until she found the tree itself, bark torn in long pale grooves far above her head. A silver fox sat at its roots, calm and waiting. When she stepped closer, it turned and trotted a few paces, then paused, looking over its shoulder. Elderwood understood. The forest had answered. She tightened her cloak and followed the fox deeper into the trees, no longer searching blindly — but now bound to trust a guide she had not chosen.