Wren walks faster. The armor does not make this graceful — the pauldrons sway, the left greave catches on nothing and nearly pitches her forward, and she windmills one arm for balance in a way that would shame any actual knight. But she finds a rhythm, and the white corridor narrows its silence around her. The not-quite-footsteps behind her find the same rhythm. She walks faster still. The pale trunks blur at the edges of her vision, the mist churning around her boots. Then the trees simply end. Aldermere Hollow opens ahead: a clearing of old stone and older root, the air here strangely still, the mist held back at the treeline as if it knows its place. At the centre stands a stone lantern no taller than Wren's waist, dark with age, a thread of amber light leaking through its grate like something asleep but breathing. The Ember. She is close enough to reach it in ten steps. She stops. Behind her, in the corridor, the not-quite-footsteps stop too — and the whole wood holds its breath.