Wren's boot is halfway to the road-rut when her feet betray her a second time in one night. She turns back toward the trees. Old Maret doesn't call after her. That, somehow, is worse. The fire just breathes on, and the old woman watches, and Wren walks back into the Thornwood with the Ember still warm against her fist and the harvest moon pressing at her back, too-full and getting fuller. The black-barked trees close in. The path east feels different walked toward than away — every shadow a different shape. She doesn't have to go far. At the first stand of white-barked birch, where the corridor begins, something tall and still stands between two trunks. The Watcher. Exactly as tall as she remembered. Exactly as featureless. It does not flee. It does not speak. It simply turns — if a thing without a face can turn — and moves deeper into the dark. And Wren, who has already made the harder choice tonight, follows.