Elsin does not say go. She doesn't have to. Her eyes are already on the trees. Wren snaps the box shut and tucks it under one arm, close against the sun-sigil on her breastplate — warmth calling to warmth. The Ember, even through wood and metal, is steady as a small coal. "The King's Road," Wren says — not quite a question. "Longer," Elsin says. "But nothing has marked it." A pause weighted like river stones. "Move." Wren moves. Back up the water path, mud sucking at her boots, armour rattling an argument the whole Thornwood can hear. The mist thins as she climbs. Behind her, a branch shifts — the third time now — and she does not look back. Certainty, the old woman said. She grips the box and is certain. The fork appears ahead: left, deeper into the Thornwood; right, the King's Road and open fields.