Wren's gauntlet closes around the lantern — cold stone, a swing of the grey pane — and her fingers (the gauntlet is always a size too large; there's always a gap) touch the Ember directly. It is warm. Not burning. Warm, the way an old hearth is warm, the way a held stone holds the afternoon. She closes her fist around it and runs. The hollow doesn't object. The thorns don't close in. The Ember fits in her palm like it knew to wait. What she notices, sprinting back toward the white-barked corridor, is that the tree line is empty. The Watcher is gone. Or it moved. Those aren't the same thing, and she knows it, but her legs have already voted: run. She runs. The harvest moon is still climbing. Her village is still waiting. The Ember is in her hand and she is still alive. She'll count those as three good things, as soon as she stops shaking.