Owen Cartwright reached the edge of his map before noon. He knelt and spread the paper on a stump. His mentor, Silas, had drawn every line himself, years ago, before he walked into these woods and never came back. The ink stopped at the tree line. Past that, the page was blank. Somewhere past that blank space, Silas was still out there. Owen meant to find him. He stood and studied the forest. Trees pressed close, dark and thick. No path. No landmark. The old maps had guided him this far, but they gave him nothing now. He checked his compass. The needle spun, then settled, then spun again. Iron in the ground, maybe. He could not trust it. Owen pulled his coat tight and stepped past the line. Within an hour he had lost all sense of direction. The canopy hid the sun. Every ridge looked like the last one. He had food for three days and water for one. He had trained for this, but training was not the same as knowing which way to walk. Rain started as the light failed. Owen needed shelter before dark. He climbed a rise, slipping on wet leaves, and stopped short. A tower stood in the clearing. It was a wooden fire watchtower, tall and gray, its beams sagging under years of weather. Vines hung from the platform. One leg leaned like it might drop. But near the top, through a gap in the boards, Owen saw a faint orange glow. A fire. Someone had been here. Someone might still be here. He crossed the clearing and gripped the ladder. The rungs were slick and half-rotted. One cracked under his boot, and he caught himself hard against the rail. He kept climbing. At the top he pulled himself onto the platform and looked into the watch room. A small fire burned in a metal ring. No one sat beside it. The coals were fresh, still bright. Owen crouched and warmed his hands. Then he saw it. Carved into the wall, low and deep, were three letters he knew by heart. S. C. Silas Cartwright's mark. His mentor had cut that same mark into every shelter he ever built. Owen ran his thumb over the grooves. The wood was pale inside the cuts. Fresh. Silas had been here, and not long ago. Below the mark, someone had scratched a line of numbers and an arrow. It pointed north, past the tower, deeper into the woods. Owen studied it by firelight. The old maps had ended at the forest's edge. But Silas had left a new one, cut into the walls of the place he stopped to rest. Owen sat back on his heels. He had crossed the blank space and found a trail. He knew, now, which way to go. Come morning, he would follow the arrow north, and see how far the marks would lead him.