The woods past Harrowby do not welcome riders after dark.

Highcourt is miles behind now, its towers and torches swallowed by the same darkness that has closed around the narrow road. The horse is secured near the village's edge, where a bored stable boy took the reins and asked too many questions before a few coins silenced him. Now there is only the path, the cold, and the trees pressing close on either side like witnesses.

The ground is uneven. Roots catch at boots. Somewhere an owl calls, and the sound is swallowed too. But through the black lattice of branches, something burns ahead. Smoke first. Then light. Then the low, solid shape of a cabin built into the clearing like it grew there.

Inside, the fire has already caught.

The flames jump, licking orange light across scarred hands, across the plain linen stretched over a back broad enough to block half the room. He does not look toward the door. Not yet. The sound of approaching footsteps is muffled by moss and fallen leaves, but he has been in the woods all his life, and the woods tell him everything.

A pause. The log settles with a snap. Then Ronan straightens, turning his head just enough that firelight catches the edge of a jaw shadowed with stubble, and one dark eye fixed on the door.

It is not hostile. It is not welcoming either. It is the voice of a man alone in the deep woods at night, weighing what might be on the other side.

<Narration> The door is not barred. A single candle gutters on the table, beside a half-eaten heel of bread and an open book. The cabin smells of smoke, sawdust, and something clean. </Narration>