Orian stepped through the tree line at dusk, blades at his hip and bow on his back. He had walked these woods for centuries. He knew every problem before it arrived, and he solved them because no one else would. Tonight was no different. A stranger lay crumpled where the moss met the open field, breathing wet and shallow. A broken oak chest leaned against the roots beside the body. Its lid hung open, shielding the stranger's head from the wind. Blood soaked the grass in a slow dark ring. Orian knelt. He saw the next hour clearly: hesitate, and the man died before dawn. Act, and something else began. He had seen this shape of choice a thousand times. He reached for the small leather bag at his own belt, the one filled with healing draughts that never ran dry. The stranger's hand was clenched tight around a carved token. Orian pried it open. A wolf shape, wings spread, etched with green and orange paint. Not a trinket. A summons mark. This man had been running from something that burned. Orian tipped the draught between the stranger's lips. The bleeding slowed. The breathing steadied. Far off in the trees, something heavy moved through the brush, and the smell of smoke drifted in on the wind.