Wren turns back to the road and runs. The wheatfields blur amber on either side; she doesn't look back at the Thornwood once. Old Maret's words keep pace with her: it was waiting to see what she did. Well. She's doing it. The village lanterns appear first, then the gate, then the headwoman on the step with her arms folded — and her expression doing a complicated thing when she registers the sun-sigil breastplate, and then the girl inside it. Wren opens her fist. The Ember sits in her palm, warm and steady. The headwoman receives it in both hands without a word, the way you hold something you've been afraid to need. Then, finally, she breathes. The harvest moon hangs above the thatch. Still a sliver from full. The Watcher is somewhere in the deep Thornwood. It did not follow. That's enough. That is, Wren decides, exactly enough.