The fire consumes, and when it's gone there's a clearing, the path leading into a labyrinth. He can see the tall peaks of the manor beyond, but he's starting to think that distance here is an illusion -- he's been walking for a while now.

"I think I know this one," he says dryly, but he can't help smiling a little, tilting his head at it.

There's something so fantastic about this all. For a long time, his magic has been about survival, and when he's in a good place, about personal growth, about learning to connect himself to something larger. But the hedge of thorns, the labyrinth. It's magic in a different sense, like the feeling the first few times, snuck away from his aunt's house, that he'd created fire -- back then, just little sparks. It had been so incredible, and new, and so defiant. Another world to exist in, as if proving that he was right that he didn't belong in theirs.

He heads down into it, almost immediately confronted with a juncture. He leans down both ways, reaches out -- though divination isn't his strong point -- touches the path for any sense he might pick up. All things being equal, he amuses himself by taking the left-hand path and heads further into the maze, drawing along the wall with his staff.