"How did you know?" Wren asks, because the alternative is sitting there with her mouth hanging open, which seems worse. Old Maret lifts the spoon and considers it as though the broth is more interesting than the question. "Same way I know the moon has three nights left before she's full," she says. "I pay attention. Also, the last one came through here in spring, asking with the same look on his face." She nods toward the breastplate. "Different fit on that armor, though. He filled it out considerably more." The dead knight. Wren's hands tighten on her knees. "He came through here?" "Sat on that very stone. Ate. Listened. Made a choice I'd not have made in his place." Maret ladles broth into a clay bowl and holds it out across the fire. "Now you're here instead." The flames pop and settle. "So — do you want to know where the Ember is, or do you want to know what happened to him?"