The Thorn Path did not walk straight.
It writhed.
Trees bent to form archways that closed behind Cael as he passed. Vines shifted like serpents in the underbrush. Light came not from sun or moon—but from glowing fungus and pale blossoms that pulsed with colorless breath.
The forest was alive.
And it was watching.
Cael's wound throbbed.
The bracelet of thorns had burrowed into his wrist, not cruelly—but intimately. Like a brand that wasn't just marking him.
It was naming him.
He passed a tree that bled.
Sap the color of amber poured from a deep gash, pooling at the roots where it fed dozens of pale white flowers. As Cael drew near, the flowers twisted to follow him.
Their petals opened.
Inside, he saw eyes.
"Don't stop," came a voice.
It wasn't the girl.
This voice was rough, hoarse, wrapped in age and moss.
Cael turned—and found himself face to face with a man made of bark and beard. His skin was bark, his eyes glowing green slits beneath a crown of horn and fungus.
"Move, Thornblood," the creature said. "This path only spares the willing."
"Who are you?"
"A ghost. A memory. A warning."
The bark-man leaned forward, sniffing the Scabbard across Cael's back.
"Hmm. So she gave it to you."
"She?" Cael narrowed his eyes. "The girl?"
"No." A crackling laugh. "The forest."
The path split ahead.
One trail twisted upward toward a mound of standing stones, ringed by runes that glowed faint blue.
The other dipped into shadow—toward a hollow choked with hanging roots and toadstools, where the air pulsed with something older than magic.
"Choose, boy," the bark-man said. "Stone or root."
"What's the difference?"
"One remembers what Albion was.The other remembers what Albion became."
Cael clenched his fist.
The Scabbard pulsed once—then went still.
No guidance. No whisper. The forest would not choose for him this time.
The bark-man faded back into the trees.
"You've bled," he said.
"Now bleed right."
Cael looked between the paths.
Stone.
Root.
Past.
Or present.