Old Maret's spoon makes one slow circle. "The first was a soldier — confident, took the Watcher's Path because someone told him it was shorter. It is shorter." She taps the rim twice. "He came back. Just not himself. Sits at the wood's edge now, feeding birds. Very quiet. Worrying, in its way." She studies Wren properly for the first time, taking in the borrowed breastplate, the youth under the ridiculous helmet. "The second was a girl — five years older than you. Cleverer. She found the Hollow Gate and tried to bargain passage with something that doesn't trade in coin." A pause. "You can still hear her, if the wind sits right. Not words. Laughter. From the wrong direction." The fire pops. Wren stares at her cup and says nothing for a long moment. "There's another way," Old Maret says, as though she hadn't just described something genuinely terrible. "Longer. Wetter. No Watchers on it." She lifts the spoon. "Whether what waits at Aldermere's door is worse than a Watcher — that I cannot tell you."