The low path is a ribbon of too-green.

It runs between the Lynne and the ridge, a farmer’s summer track. In spate the meadow remembers it is the river’s spare room. Puddles have currents. A waymark here would be a cruelty; there isn’t one. That absence is information.

Aelric, if he came, holds the parchment like a shield. “The list says no.”

You can admit the lie and cut toward Bram’s ferry, south, where a rope is a fact.

You can keep on until the green is water around your calves and the day thins.

No painted staff here. That is the map. People put marks where they want feet. They do not mark a path the Lynne borrows every flood. Your calves, if you go on, will write the warning in cold.

Aelric’s list-weight in your pocket (or his hands) is heavier than a shortcut. You can still choose the green. People do. That is why the list exists.