"A moment," Wren says, and moves toward the wood's edge with as much dignity as clanking plate allows — as though she has simply remembered an errand among the roots. The guard waits with professional patience. The road stays empty in both directions. That is when she notices the fire. Tucked twenty paces into the first oaks, low coals ringed by stone, a clay pot steaming — and beside it a wiry old woman in a dead-leaf coat watching Wren with the unhurried attention of someone who has stopped being surprised by most things. A loaded mule crops the verge nearby. "Half-penny trouble?" the old woman says, and holds a coin between two fingers before Wren has opened her mouth. Wren stares. "How did you—" "Twenty years on this road." The old woman's eyes settle on the sun-sigil and linger a beat too long. "Take it. We'll talk after you're through the gate."