Pan Silverleaf climbed the brass tower at first light and counted the dark spots on the map below. Three more glades had gone quiet overnight. He wanted to rule Woodwraith one day, beside the one he loved, but no crown waited for a man who let the forest vanish. So he set his jaw and got to work. His camp sat at the tower's base: a tidy patch of strange vegetables he tended each morning, and a small key on a cord around his neck. The key was said to open any door. He had carried it for weeks, waiting for the right lock. The mechanical crows wheeled overhead and dropped a fresh sighting at his boots. A grave-mark, still glowing, deep in the western wood. Pan touched the key. "One door at a time," he said, and started walking. By dusk he had reached the glade, slipped the key into the warding stone, and turned it. Light bloomed back through the trees. One mark steadied on the map. Dozens still flickered — but the realm now knew his name, and watchers in the high branches had seen what he could do.