The word is carved deep into the bark of an ancient oak — letters that glow faintly amber in the afternoon light, as if the tree itself remembers being cut. Mira traces the grooves with one finger and feels a low hum travel up her arm. Someone was here recently; the wood around the edges is still pale and raw. She crouches to examine the ground and finds two sets of clues: a trail of muddy boot-prints leading toward the old mill on the hill, and a torn scrap of paper caught on a root, covered in the same strange lettering. The mill's waterwheel groans in the distance. The paper flutters like it's trying to escape.