Maret sets the spoon down at last. "He was a capable man," she says, in the tone of someone about to qualify that substantially. "Reached the Ember's hollow in half a day — he'd done his reading, knew the old verse about following the fire-moss east." She prods the coals with a stick. "The trouble came after. There are two paths back: the long way, round by the standing stones — safe as a market road, takes most of a night. Or the short way, through the deep hollow, where the trees have no bark and the light goes sideways." Her eyes lift to Wren's across the fire. "He chose quick. I'd have chosen thorough." The flames settle low. "He came out before dawn with the Ember in his hand, looking twenty years older and running a fever nothing could shift. Something in that hollow does not care to be walked through." She picks up the spoon again. "He died three days ago. Now you know how."