Wren stares at the open hand for one more second. Then she reaches out — not for the sword, never for the sword — and takes what the Watcher holds. It is small. Warm. It sits in her palm like a coal that has forgotten how to burn out, amber-orange at its heart, light the exact colour of the lanterns in her village on a winter evening. The Ember of Aldermere. She closes her fingers around it carefully. The Watcher's arms lower — first the pointing one, then the open one — unhurried, as everything it does. It stands between the pale trees, still and unreadable, and Wren has the impression that something has been concluded. "Thank you," she says. It feels insufficient. It also feels true. She turns west. Out of the Thornwood, toward the wheatfields and the road and the village and the moon. The Ember stays warm in her palm the whole long walk out.