Wren picks up the cup. The broth is earthy and warm and tastes of something she cannot quite name — woodsmoke, and something older, like the smell before rain. It helps. The armor feels less cold, or she does. "The second one," she says, setting the cup down. "What were they like?" Old Maret considers this at her own pace. "Quieter than the soldier. No glory in it for them — they had a name for someone inside Aldermere. Said they had to find them." She stirs the pot once. "Came past three days ago at dusk, lantern in hand, didn't ask me a thing. That should've worried me more than it did." The fire snaps. The mule lifts its head toward the dark, then lets it drop. "There's more to the Ashgate than the barrow," Old Maret says, as if noting a change in the weather. "The barrow's not the hard part." She refills Wren's cup without being asked.