It matters: in part instinct, in part practicality. (One part that there is a difference, always, to him of what he might choose to do for a reason and what is just bullshit coming at them on a swinging axe.)

They press forward. He keeps lighting the torches as if it matters. Wonders if at some point, he'll light a torch that'll trigger some other trap. But the ground is clear, the path leading them precisely one direction. No forks in the road. Only ever one corner to turn. He can't say it makes him feel any better. Feels like he's being herded like sheep, funnelled into a damn pen.

They're several turns in when he first hears it: a faint howl in the distance. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder. Wolves. Here? His expression is cautious. He's grown up surrounded by wolves—has learned to respect them, not fear them—but that doesn't mean these wolves will be anything like the ones who make their home in the forests.

His eyes flick to Jo, uncertain if she heard the same howls. It's faint but audible—and it's growing stronger. More than one. A pack.