They reached the ravine as the first green lantern appeared on the ridge. Its light did not spill across the ground; it clung to the bearer like a wet veil. Mira ran until her lungs burned, following Rowan over roots and slick stones. The ash-gray wolf moved beside them without making a sound.
At the ravine floor, Rowan pressed his palm against a wall of tangled roots. “The house will let us in if it remembers you.”
“I have never been here.”
“The house has.”
He stepped back. The roots shuddered. A seam opened in the earth, revealing a narrow wooden door with a brass handle. Above it, carved letters rearranged themselves into Mira's name. She looked at Rowan.
“You said my mother was a firewarden. Why would a house remember me?”
“Because your mother built this refuge with her own blood.”
The hunters shouted from the ridge. Mira seized the handle and pulled. Warm lamplight spilled over the stones. Inside was a round room beneath the roots, crowded with shelves, maps, dried herbs, and jars full of blue flame. The wolf slipped past her. Rowan entered last and slammed the door.
The room listened. Roots folded over the wood, sealing it from the outside.
Mira stood in the center, soaked and shaking. A fire burned in a stone hearth, though no logs fed it. On the mantel rested a portrait of her mother. Not the tired, smiling woman from Mira's childhood memories, but a young woman with a sword on her back and a crown of copper hair. She held an infant wrapped in a red blanket.
Mira moved closer. “Why did she never tell me?”
“Because the Court was searching for you before you could walk.”
Rowan removed his cloak and held it out. She hesitated, then accepted it. It smelled faintly of cedar and smoke. The wolf curled beside the hearth, watching Rowan as if it disapproved of every choice he made.
On a table lay a circular map of the northern provinces. Three territories had been marked in black: Bellwether, the Ashen March, and a place labeled Crown of Night. A fourth mark pulsed beneath the ink. Mira touched it, and the iron key at her throat answered with a spark.
The map unfolded like a flower. A hidden road appeared, leading from the house to a mountain shaped like a sleeping giant.
“The Starfall Archive,” Rowan said. “Your mother hid the ember there.”
“What ember?”
He looked toward the jars on the shelves. “The first flame. It can open the old gates, heal the dying, or destroy every oath that holds the kingdoms together. The Hollow Court wants it because their queen is fading.”
Mira's anger rose above her fear. “And you want it because?”
“I want your mother alive.”
The answer landed with such plain force that Mira could not immediately challenge it. Rowan turned away, jaw tight. On his wrist, a black mark curved beneath his glove, the same crescent as the letter's seal.
Before Mira could ask, the house groaned. Dust drifted from the ceiling. A voice spoke from inside the walls.
“Blood of the warden, choose your companion.”
Two doors appeared beside the hearth. One was painted white and smelled of morning. The other was painted black and leaked green light.
“What happens if I choose neither?” Mira asked.
The voice answered, “The forest chooses for you.”
Above them, the hunters began cutting through the roots. Rowan reached for his sword. Mira looked at his scarred hand, the anxious wolf, and the road toward the archive.
Then she opened the white door.