Morgatha Thornheart crouched in the dust above the broken storehouse, watching a figure stumble out of the wreckage. Decades she had waited. Decades she had been refused. Now the seal beneath the forest was cracking, and the beast she meant to wake was stirring at last. She would not let one frightened survivor carry that news back to the clans. She drew the carved stone from her pouch. Its swirling lines pulled at her eyes, and she pressed it to the dirt where the runner's footprints led. The patterns drank the prints down. The survivor froze mid-step on the path ahead, mouth opening, no sound coming out. Morgatha rose and walked toward the silent figure. The warning would not reach the clans tonight. The survivor had stopped between two huge old oaks, their trunks twisted together like clasped hands. Morgatha pressed the stone against the survivor's chest. The body went slack and folded into the roots. She dragged it behind the trunks and covered it with leaves. No witness now. No warning. But fresh boot prints cut the path beyond the oaks — a second runner, already gone, already carrying the news down to the clans. Morgatha followed the new trail at a run. Torn sacks lay split across the moss, grain spilled in a yellow streak pointing the way. The second runner had grabbed what they could and bolted. She slowed and stared at the gold scatter under her boots. The stone was warm in her hand, but the path bent toward smoke and lantern light below. She had silenced one mouth. The other was already inside the clan gates.