"Where," says Wren, and the word comes out steadier than she expected. Old Maret nods — not approval, precisely, but something close to it. She reaches into one of her deep coat pockets and draws out a scrap of bark the length of her thumb, notched with lines that could be a map if you squinted correctly. "The Warden's Cairn," she says. "Dead centre of the Thornwood, where the fire path and the water path meet again — they always meet, in the end. Stone table, stone lid, no lock. The keeper who guarded it died last winter and left it unwatched." She holds the bark across the fire. "Your knight knew all of this. What he did not know was what had moved in to fill the vacancy." Wren takes the bark. The notches are cold against her palm. "What moved in?" Maret picks up her spoon and stirs. "That," she says pleasantly, "is why you are here instead of him."