Alder Gloomthorn stepped past the cracked stone marker at the edge of his glade, its dark green rune still humming from his morning work. He walked toward the wooden ring of benches, where the elders waited to weigh his name. He wanted no praise. He wanted a vote. Before he reached the central dais, another guardian rose and pointed at him. "He is unworthy," she said. "Too young. The eastern roots healed on their own. He claims work he did not do." The elders did not speak. They watched Alder, waiting. Alder did not argue. He lifted the bark-and-wood talisman from beneath his cloak and set it on the table. Its green heartstone pulsed once, bright, then steadied — a light only a true tender of the glade could wake. The accuser's mouth closed. An elder leaned forward, frowning, and touched the wood. "We will speak on this," the eldest said at last. Not a vote. Not yet. But the talisman stayed glowing on their table as Alder turned and walked back toward his boundary stone, the accusation no longer the only thing in the room.