The not-hurrying is over. Wren runs — armor crashing, mist spraying around her boots, every careful quiet she had accumulated gone in a single decision. The sound that isn't footsteps becomes something else behind her. More present. Less patient. She doesn't look. The white-barked corridor ends without warning. One stride it's there, the next stride it's a hollow — a shallow bowl of dark earth ringed by black-barked thorns standing silent as a jury. And at the centre: a stone lantern on a low plinth, grey-paned, age-clouded. Inside: a glow. Not fire. Older than fire. Amber and perfectly still. The Ember. Wren doesn't stop at the edge. She's already through, skidding, plate mail ringing, one gauntleted hand reaching — Behind her, the corridor goes very quiet. Something is at the tree line.