Maren Brask knelt in the road and watched her last answer disappear. She had scratched the traveler's foolish reply into the stone with her bone knife. Now the marks blurred to nothing, like water over sand. Ten years she had guarded this crossroads. Ten years she had turned failed men away with a riddle. She wanted the road to hold their wrong words forever, a stone ledger of mortal stupidity. But her knife could no longer bite the rock. She pressed the blade to the stone and dragged it hard. The bone skidded. It left a white smear, then nothing. The tip had worn round. She had sharpened it on grit until there was little left to sharpen. Maren stood to her full height and pulled her wolf-pelt cloak tight. A record that fades is no record. Without a lasting mark, ten years of folly would vanish, and she would have guarded nothing. Then she heard breathing behind the tree line. Heavy. Slow. She turned. A dire wolf stepped onto the road. It stood as tall as her chest. Along its spine rose a ridge of pale bone, and above its skull curved a crown of horns, weathered and hard. It had come to her crossroads before, always at a distance, always watching. She had left it the scraps of her kills. Now it stopped an arm's length away and did not growl. Maren looked at the crown of bone on its head. Harder than her worn knife. Harder, maybe, than the road. She moved slow. The wolf's yellow eyes held on her. She reached up and closed her hand around the smallest horn, near the beast's ear. The wolf tensed. Its lip peeled back over long teeth. Maren did not let go. She twisted. The horn cracked at the root and came free in her fist. The wolf lunged. Teeth raked her forearm and tore the pelt. Maren drove her shoulder into its chest and shoved. The beast stumbled back, shook its great head, and stared at her. Then it turned and vanished into the trees. Blood ran down her arm. In her hand lay a shard of bone, thick as a spike, its broken end sharp. Maren knelt again over the last faded answer. She set the point to the stone and pushed. The horn bit. A pale line opened in the rock and stayed. She dragged it again and carved a groove that would not fade. For the first time, the road held a mark. Maren smiled and began to carve the traveler's answer in full. But the bone point was rough and uneven. Each letter came out crooked, half-formed, hard to read. A record that no one could read was no better than one that vanished. She stared at the ugly, snagging line and knew this tool alone would not be enough.