Dusk on the corridor is blue and quick.

The Pale One’s hallway—stream, fallen oak, bramble—fills with people who do not all want the same thing. Some brought ropes they are already ashamed of. Some brought only eyes, or a ledger, or a rehearsal of being quiet. Peddler Voss’s encouragement, if he is here, is quiet as a price. Clumsy boots. The hart will come because the hart has always come, unless the wall of them teaches it a new map.

You, Thorn of the hollow, Mira Lane. Blocking people if they need blocking, not attacking. Arms out. Voices low. Elves do not throw spells like stones. They put bodies on a path and make the path mean stop.

Master Cole may be among the watchers, learning or failing to. Old Nan Reed may be arriving with a story still warm. Elder Briar, if the elves have come this far, stays at the fern-edge.

The white shape shows between ferns, gold light gone gray. Antler. Vine or no vine. Real.

You can speak the feeding-order and the myth aloud—sun, plants, browsers, the holy story that was a fence of words—and see whether a crowd can still hear.

Or you can go still on the correct side of the hallway, a wall of quiet, and give the hart the uncut wood if it will take it.