Mira’s third way fits on a mill bench between a cup and a crust.

“A gate in the fence,” she says. “Wildlife gap. Deer choose it. Sheep get a different latch. Father already knows hinges.”

She takes a breath. “And we do not sell a horn. We sell a look. Guided dawn-watch. Coin for seeing the hart from a distance, downwind, counted, no crowding. Elves set the rules. We keep the path from becoming a stampede. Visitors pay. The mill eats. The Pale One keeps its head.”

You can hear the holes in it—too many visitors, a fool with a rope—but holes can be patched with the etiquette Thorn taught you last summer: downwind, counted, no grabbing.

“Wonder first,” Mira says, fierce in a quiet way. “Not owning.”

Cole is not in the room. That is either a problem or a chance.

You can pitch this at full council, mill yard, elves at the edge, Nan in the good chair even outdoors.

You can take it to Cole alone, so fear does not have an audience.