Fern knelt in the nave of the old vine-covered church, his maps spread across the cold stone floor. He pressed a fingertip to each verified name, seven generations deep, all the way to the gold elk skull he kept at the far edge of the parchment. Past that marker, only two names remained, inked into a brittle leaf-shaped booklet bound with wax. He needed to know where his power began, and the trail simply stopped. He closed his eyes and tried, again, to remember the day a root first cracked stone to reach his hand. Nothing came. Not the weather, not the hour, not what he had been thinking before the ground answered him. The starting thread was gone, and without it, no map could lead him backward. A small chitter broke the silence. A brown squirrel with three tails and tufts of grass along its ears sat on the booklet, watching him with one steady eye. It nudged the wax binding with its nose, then darted to the elk skull and scratched the jeweled forehead. Fern reached for it, more curious than annoyed. The squirrel bolted toward the iron doors, stopped, and looked back. Waiting. He had practiced control on moss and single stems for years, but he had never been called by anything wild. He stood. He gathered the booklet, slipped it into his coat, and followed the creature out into the daylight. The starting thread, he decided, would not come from memory. It would have to be found.