They walked for two hours beyond the boundary.
Nobody spoke.
The fox moved ahead without ever checking whether they followed.
She didn't need to.
The forest changed around them as they went.
It did not become darker.
It did not become hostile.
It became older.
That was the only word Vane had for it.
The trees grew without the neat spacing of managed land. Roots crossed the path wherever they pleased. Streams cut through the terrain without bridges. Nothing had been marked, surveyed, named, taxed, cultivated, ranked, or assigned value by the Blessed World's four-hundred-year habit of turning land into something countable.
The place existed without reference to whether anyone found it useful.
Vane found that deeply unsettling.
The mark on his wrist burned steadily.
Not painfully.
Insistently.
With every mile, the framework inside his chest moved.
Four years.
That was how long the Usurper had been building it.
Advancing.
Stalling.
Advancing again.
