Wren sits — a process that involves a small avalanche of metal and a suppressed oath — and lands on a mossy stone with enough force to startle the mule. She smooths the parchment flat and explains: the dead knight, the harvest moon, the Ember of Aldermere, the village that won't see spring if she fails. Said out loud in the mist-hung quiet of the Thornwood, it sounds even larger than the version she has been running on since dawn. Old Maret lets her finish without interruption. She stirs the pot once, twice, then rests the spoon across the rim. "Aldermere," she says, in the tone of someone locating a thing they mislaid years ago but always knew would turn up. "Three days deeper, past the Warden's Cairn — and the door won't open without a key." She levels a look at Wren that is perfectly even, and a little amused. "I have the key."