Wren does the sensible thing: she turns east and walks. The sword comes with her, half-drawn — not quite a threat, not quite not one. A fair compromise between courage and recklessness, two things that have become difficult to distinguish. She counts white-barked trees instead of looking back. Five. Six. Seven. At twelve, the corridor opens into a clearing the Thornwood seems to have forgotten: bare earth in a ring, black thorns at a respectful distance, mist pooled at the edges and no further. At the centre stands a stone lantern — grey, ancient, built to last. An ember-light pulses inside it, once, twice, as though something behind the stone is breathing. Behind her: nothing where footsteps would be. Wren lets out the breath she has been holding since the fire on the rise. She approaches. Up close, the lantern has no hinge, no latch, no visible way in — just the ember-glow, patient behind the stone, and a single line of carvings running around its base.