Perrin found Spencer at the horse-line before dawn.
The golden eyes caught firelight from the distant camp — wolf-glow that hadn't been there when they'd left Emond's Field. The blacksmith moved with predator grace now, each footstep deliberate, each breath controlled. Something between man and wolf watched Spencer check harness buckles in the pre-dawn gray.
"You're up early," Spencer said without turning.
"Couldn't sleep." Perrin leaned against the picket line. His massive arms crossed over a chest that had grown broader with months of fighting and running. "The wolves keep showing me the Two Rivers. Whitecloaks moving through the farms. Something wrong with the land around home."
"So you're going."
"I'm going where I need to go." Perrin's voice carried weight beyond his years. "You're going where you think you should go. There's a difference."
Spencer's hands paused on the harness. That was more words at once than Perrin had spoken to him in weeks.
"The wolves tell me what's real," Perrin continued. "They show me true things — flames and blood and people I love in danger. Your system tells you what's possible. What might happen. Calculations."
He's not wrong. The Codex deals in probabilities and patterns. The wolves deal in instinct and truth.
Different tools. Different limitations.
"Be careful which one you trust," Perrin finished.
Spencer turned to face him. The golden eyes held something that wasn't quite accusation — more like recognition. Two creatures that didn't fit, each carrying burdens the other could sense.
"The wolves are smarter than my system," Spencer said. "Listen to them."
Perrin's expression shifted. Surprise, maybe, that Spencer would admit the limitation so readily. Then a slow nod.
"I intend to."
---
Faile waited by the horses.
Spencer studied her thread while she adjusted saddlebags with the efficiency of someone who'd spent her life on horseback. Steel-blue, fierce, knotted with determination and pride that would serve her well in the battles ahead. The Saldaean features matched the name she wasn't using — Zarine Bashere, noblewoman hunting something she wouldn't name.
But the thread-connection was what caught his attention.
A red-gold twist linked her to Perrin — not fully formed, but strengthening with each day they spent together. Romance, duty, destiny woven into a single bond that would shape nations if they both survived long enough.
Their fate-bond is already forming. The Pattern wants them together.
Spencer's fingers twitched with the familiar urge to strengthen the connection. A small Twist could accelerate what was already happening, ensure the partnership his meta-knowledge said was supposed to exist.
He didn't.
The Pattern is handling this one fine. Some threads don't need my interference.
And some things should happen naturally, even in a world where I can see them coming.
Faile caught him watching and returned the gaze without flinching. Her eyes were dark, sharp, measuring.
"You're the one with the strange Talent," she said. "Perrin mentioned you."
"Did he mention what it is?"
"He said you see things no one else can see." She cinched a strap with unnecessary force. "And that the wolves don't trust you."
"The wolves are wise."
"That's not a denial."
"It's not." Spencer turned back to his own horse. "Take care of him. The Two Rivers will need him whole."
Faile's expression flickered — surprise at the assumption she'd be taking care of anyone, then something harder. Determination, maybe. Or acceptance.
"I intend to."
---
Loial would travel with Perrin.
The Ogier's decision had surprised everyone except Spencer. The gentle scholar with his love of trees and books had chosen wolves over libraries, friendship over safety.
"I would stay with all of you if I could," Loial said, his rumbling voice thick with emotion. "But Perrin needs someone who can open the Ways if necessary. And I..." He trailed off, great hands fidgeting. "I have grown fond of him. Of all of you. Saying goodbye is harder than I expected."
"The books never prepare you for it," Spencer said quietly.
Loial's ears perked. "You understand."
"Better than you know."
The Ogier embraced Spencer with arms that could have crushed a horse. For a moment, the warmth was genuine — the particular gift of connection that made all the pain worthwhile.
Take care of Perrin. Take care of the Two Rivers.
Take care of yourself.
---
The crossroads came with the sunrise.
Spencer stood with the reduced group — Rand, Mat, Moiraine, Lan, Min, Hurin — as Perrin mounted his horse. Faile waited beside him, her steel-blue thread already intertwining with his wolf-gold. Loial sat on a massive draft horse that looked grateful for an Ogier's steady weight.
Perrin looked at Spencer one last time.
"Whatever you are," he said, "try not to burn anyone I care about."
"I'll try."
"That's all any of us can do."
Spencer clasped Perrin's forearm — the blacksmith's grip strong and certain, the calluses familiar against Spencer's carpenter-rough palms. For a moment, two wrong things stood together at a crossroads, each carrying burdens the other could sense but never fully share.
Then Perrin pulled away, the horses moved, and the golden-eyed silhouette grew smaller against the southern horizon.
Spencer watched until Thread Tracing was more useful than vision. Perrin's wolf-gold signature faded into the distance, heading toward a destiny Spencer knew from fourteen books but couldn't accompany.
The Two Rivers arc. Perrin becomes Lord of the Two Rivers. He leads the defense against Trollocs and Whitecloaks both.
I'll see him again. Probably.
If we both survive long enough.
Behind him, Rand announced they would continue east. The Dragon's voice carried authority that made everyone move without question.
And Spencer turned toward the Stone of Tear, carrying the knowledge that Rand's dreams were getting worse — and the scorch-marks on the Pattern were growing larger.
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