Wren runs west. The Thornwood gets no quieter for the going — if anything, the armor is noisier when she's exhausted, clanging at angles no blacksmith planned for. But the white-barked trees give way to black-barked ones, the path tilts upward, and then she's at the rise. Old Maret's fire still breathes. Old Maret stands beside it as if she never moved, one hand on the clay pot. "You got it," she says. Not a question. Wren holds up her closed fist by way of answer. "The Watcher went back toward the deep Thornwood," Maret adds, stirring. "I wouldn't call that gone." Wren says "right" and keeps moving. The slope drops, the trees thin, and then — amber. Wheatfields wide and gilt in the moonlight, the harvest moon hanging fatter above the far tree line than it was this morning. Visibly fuller. She's at the edge. The road home is just ahead.