Wren stares at the open palm. There is nothing in it — or not nothing: a folded scrap, barely visible in the mist-light. She steps forward. Three paces. The armor clanks. The Watcher holds its ground. She takes the scrap. She knows its shape before she looks — the missing corner of her quest parchment. She fits the two pieces together. They sit whole in her hands for the first time. New writing runs along the completed edge, in the same careful hand as the rest: 'The Ember does not wait to be taken. It waits to be deserved.' Wren reads it twice. Folds the parchment. Tucks it back against the sun-sigil breastplate. Then she turns east — toward the thinning mist, toward Aldermere Hollow, toward whatever deserved is supposed to mean. "Right," she says to nobody in particular. "That's very clear." She walks.