Wren crouches at the base and reads by ember-glow. Suns. The same symbol carved into her breastplate — worn almost smooth but unmistakably the same. She doesn't decide to press the sigil against the stone. Her body does it for her, which seems fair; the armor has been making decisions all morning. The lantern opens. Not with a hinge. The stone simply steps aside. The ember-light comes through in a rush, warm and patient, and Wren reaches into the gap without much thought and closes her fingers around the Ember of Aldermere. It is smaller than she imagined. No larger than a river stone. It does not burn. It glows — slow, even, now beating in time with her pulse rather than its own rhythm, as if it has decided she will do. The thorns at the clearing's edge draw back by three careful paces. Wren stands, holding the thing she came for, and the whole Thornwood goes very quiet.