The Thorn-Wood lived up to its name in the most literal, painful way possible.
It wasn't just that the bushes had thorns. It was that the trees seemed to resent our presence. The branches didn't just hang; they reached. Every time the wagon rattled past a particularly gnarled oak, I swear I saw the bark twitch, trying to snag the canvas cover.
"I hate nature," Tybalt muttered from the driver's seat. He ducked as a branch whipped at his head. "Why is the lettuce so angry here?"
"It's not lettuce, Ty," I said, consulting the map I'd drawn in the dirt the night before, now transferred to a scrap of parchment Cian had salvaged. "It's Razor-Vine. It's carnivorous. Usually, it eats deer, but I think it's considering a baker for lunch."
