The stranger introduced himself as Rowan Ash, though he said the name as if it belonged to someone he had buried. He did not offer his hand. Instead, he gestured toward the black forest and kept his attention on the road behind Mira. Bellwether remained silent. Even the clock tower had stopped at eleven, its hands pinned against the moon.
“We should move,” Rowan said.
“You sent the letter.”
“I carried it.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the safest answer I have.”
Mira disliked him immediately, which was comforting. Fear made people admire the first person who promised direction. Dislike kept her thinking. She tucked the iron key beneath her collar and walked into the trees, leaving enough distance between them to run if necessary.
The forest swallowed the town sounds within a dozen steps. Wet branches brushed Mira’s shoulders. Blue motes drifted between the trunks, rising from the moss whenever Rowan passed. He carried a narrow sword at his hip, its hilt wrapped in faded green cloth. No lantern guided them. He seemed to know the path by memory, although the path kept changing beneath their feet.
“What does keeper of the last ember mean?” Mira asked.
“Your mother was a firewarden.”
“There are no firewardens.”
“There are no dragons either, according to the people who have never seen one.”
She stopped. Rowan stopped too, but he did not turn around. In the distance, something heavy moved through the undergrowth. A branch cracked. Mira heard a low breath, followed by the scrape of claws over stone.
“Stay behind me,” Rowan said.
“If that is advice, make it more specific.”
He drew his sword. The steel was not silver but a deep translucent blue, like ice holding a piece of sky. A wolf stepped onto the path. It was larger than any wolf Mira had seen in the illustrated books at the bakery, with fur the color of fresh ash and eyes that glowed amber. A thin line of gold ran from its brow to its nose.
Mira recognized the line. Her mother had worn a pendant carved in that shape.
The wolf lowered its head. Not to attack. To bow.
Rowan's sword remained raised. “Do not speak to it.”
The wolf looked at Mira and opened its mouth. A woman's voice came out.
“Little ember.”
Mira forgot how to breathe. The voice was older than her memories, but the rhythm was unmistakable. Her mother used to sing while kneading dough, always pausing before the last note as if someone might be listening.
“Where is she?” Mira whispered.
Rowan stepped between them. “The Hollow Court took her.”
The wolf's ears flattened. It turned toward the northern ridge and growled. Far away, a green light appeared among the trees. Another answered it. Then a third. Lanterns, moving in a line.
“Hunters,” Rowan said. “They have crossed the boundary.”
The wolf pressed its forehead against Mira's hand. Heat rushed through her palm, and a vision flashed: a tower beneath a red moon, a woman in chains, and a door made of living flame. Mira pulled away with a cry.
Rowan caught her elbow. His glove was cold, but his grip was careful.
“What did you see?”
“My mother.”
For the first time, his guarded expression broke. Grief crossed his face so quickly that Mira wondered if the rain had reflected it.
“Then the ember has woken,” he said. “And the Court will burn Bellwether to find it.”
Behind them, the green lanterns drew closer. The wolf bared its teeth. Rowan pointed toward a narrow ravine.
“Run, Mira. This time, do not stop to ask questions.”