The skeleton obeyed. Down in the maze, the middling piece raised its rusted sword and brought it down against the nearest wall of black roses.
The hedge parted under the blade — and then knit itself back together, thorns weaving over the cut as fast as it had opened. A second stroke. The same: severed, then healed, the rose-flesh closing like water poured back into a bowl.
The third stroke landed, and the hedge stayed open. The thorns shuddered, twitched, and went still, leaving a clean gap in the wall where there had been none.
"(Three cuts,)" Ebony noted, filing it away with grim satisfaction. "(Just like the old version. The walls regenerate twice and surrender on the third. Action over movement. He built the whole board to punish people who only ever think about going forward.)"
And across the garden, the king began to laugh.
