Lyanna Evenstar crouched at the forest edge and watched the woodsman study her boot prints. He had seen her slip into the trees three days running. If he talked in the village, her hidden sanctuary would be found, and every creature she sheltered there would lose its only safe ground. She waited until he moved on, then doubled back along a false trail she had been building for weeks. At its end stood the collapsed lumber mill, roof crushed under a fallen tree, walls drowned in moss. She had scuffed fresh prints around its doorway and left a snare in the weeds. Anyone curious would find this ruin and believe her secret was only a squatter's shed. On the rotted sill sat a small blue frog with sky-soft fur, blinking up at her like a quiet witness. That evening the woodsman returned with two villagers. Lyanna watched from the brush as they circled the ruined mill, laughed at the snare, and shook their heads. The woodsman shrugged and led them home. Her real path, deeper still, remained unwalked. But she had spent her misdirection now, and she knew the next curious eyes would look harder.