Wren pauses on the far bank and turns. Old Maret hasn't stirred from her fire — clay pot, patient mule, the look of someone who has watched many young people make avoidable decisions and has learned to keep her opinions brief. "I thank you," Wren says, and she means it. "Truly. But the moon was fuller last night than the night before." She gestures at the road ahead, at the general weight of the quest. "I can't stop." Maret nods once, unhurried. "Road forks again at Milkweed Hollow. Three ways. No stones." "Right," says Wren. "Thank you." And she walks. The King's Road runs north through ochre fields and thinning hedgerows. The parchment tells her nothing about hollows or forks or anything called Aldermere — just bring back the Ember before the moon turns full, ink bled with what she suspects was anxiety. By mid-morning she finds the hollow exactly as promised: three mud tracks diverging from a stand of dead thistle, no signpost, no milestone, no one in sight to ask.