Wren follows the white-barked trees west, the armor's weight settling into something she's almost used to. The Ember sits in her fist — warm, unhurried, not at all concerned about her heart rate. She is very concerned about her heart rate. She doesn't check behind her. She counts white trunks instead, as if they're proof of distance made. They don't move. That's the nicest thing that's happened all morning. She half-expects the campfire to be gone — Old Maret strikes her as the sort who arrives and departs like weather. But no: the stone-ringed fire is still on the rise, the loaded mule still beside it, and Old Maret is crouched over her clay pot with the unhurried patience of someone who never quite believed the world would end before breakfast. She looks up when she hears the armor coming. Her expression doesn't change. But she sets the spoon down. "Well then," she says.