You leave the beetles. You take the catalog hall east, then think better of Brask’s satchel and cut by the east gate, which is where town stops pretending peat is theoretical.

Stakes already stand in the near fen: raw wood, ribbon, a line that believes itself. Between them, crushed reed shows a desire-path—people guessing a road with their boots before the road has earned a name. The boardwalk, two planks to the north of the damage, continues to do the job: feet dry, fen uncut.

Tansy says, “That’s a scar.”

You have heard Sable: a corridor is a promise a place already made. A new scar is a rumor with mud on it. You do not honor a rumor just because it is straight.

Brask’s satchel sits on the gate-bench, flap half open, the survey sheet a white glare. Holt’s voice is a drum in the square. The Atlas, back in the Spine, is trying not to fade.

You can stop and let the two paths teach you before anyone’s boots go farther.

Or you can refuse the shortcut-pride and go straight to the people (and pages) who keep call numbers as promises.