"The dead knight's," Wren says. "He died three days ago. The parchment still needed carrying, and no one else would." It sounds worse aloud than it did in her head. Old Maret considers that, eyes on the fire. Then: "The sun-sigil is from the Order of the First Hearth. They swore old oaths to the Ember — bound themselves to it, generations back." A glance at the breastplate. "That armor knows where it's going, even if you don't." She lifts her chin toward the north-west dark. "Drink the cup. Then go." The broth is hot and tastes of woodsmoke and something she can't name. Wren sets the clay cup on the stone, tucks the parchment back under the breastplate, and walks. Maret's fire shrinks behind her until it's only a warm rumour in the dark. The stream finds her before she finds it — a cold rush over moss-black stones. She crosses it in three clumsy, clanking steps. Beyond it, the trees change: older, hollowed, their bark pale as birch ash, and the mist here does not drift. It waits.