Garran knelt in the straw of the small barn and held out a fresh handful of moss. The split-antler calf turned its head away. He had built this shelter board by board to keep the cold off the only creature that could wake the Heartwood, and now it was dying of hunger in his hands. Outside the wide doors, the evidence of his failure lay scattered in the dirt. An overturned basket spilled golden grain across the ground. Beside it sat rejected piles of clover, birch shoots, river reeds, and acorn mash. Claw marks scored the basket where something hungry had tried its luck and been chased off. He carried his stone slate back inside and crouched by the lamp. Chalk marks covered its face, every forage tried, every hour it was refused. He read the list twice. Every common food was crossed out. Only one line had no mark beside it: ash. He remembered the gray dust clinging to the calf's coat the morning it was born. Garran went to the cold hearth, scraped a palmful of fine ash, and held it out. The calf's nose twitched. It stepped forward and ate from his hand. Garran exhaled for the first time in hours. The calf would live tonight. But his hearth was nearly empty, and ash was not a thing the forest grew on its own.