The Watcher gives no answer. Perhaps it has none. Wren turns back to the lantern. The pane swings open without argument, and the Ember rises — not lifted, more like it decides to go with her — and settles into the cup of her gauntlet, warm and weightless as a held breath. It does not burn. It does not flicker. It simply is: amber and steady, the oldest light she has ever touched. She closes her fist around it. The Watcher is still at the tree line. And the tree line is where she needs to go. Wren walks to the Hollow's edge. Dark earth gives way to pale root and shadow. One boot over the boundary, then the other — and she is outside, with the Ember in her hand and nothing between her and whatever The Watcher is. It doesn't move. But it is looking at her differently now.