Wren does not run — running in armour this size is how people fall on roots and lose small amber-gold cargo — but she walks with purpose, placing each boot like she knows exactly where she's going, even when she isn't entirely sure. The Ember answers. Its warmth steadies against her ribs, patient and faithful, mildly unimpressed by the dark and the damp. Behind her, she cannot quite hear footsteps. She does not look back. Looking is doubt's first cousin. The mist parts grudgingly. Tree roots offer their opinions. She gains ground. The second fork materialises out of the murk — the same two paths she passed on the way down, only the going-up versions look considerably less obvious. The left branch is steeper, rock-strewn; faster, if her footing holds. The right curves longer through the mist, but it is at least flat. Somewhere behind her, a branch settles. In the not-nothing way.