Tineman Gray crouched in the ferns and watched the great tree door. Crossed branches formed its gate, and torches burned on either side. Inside lay the antlered halls. Inside lay the crown his bloodline had lost. He had come to take it back and lead the forest kin home, but the road in was guarded. Above the gate hung a golden ring shaped to crown a stag's antlers. It was the gatekeepers' test. Only those whose antlers fit the ring could pass. His own antlers were sharp and strong, but his fur was muddy and his cloak was torn. Guards would see a fugitive, not a lord, and their spears would not wait for questions. He drew a bundle from his pack. Inside lay a robe of stitched maple leaves and pine needles, hung with a chain of painted acorns. His ally inside had smuggled it out, weeks ago, at terrible risk. Tineman pulled it on. The leaves whispered against his fur. He stood straighter, and the weight of the robe steadied him. He walked into the torchlight. He lifted his head, and the golden ring slid down his antlers and rested there. The guards stepped back. The branch-gate creaked open. Tineman Gray crossed the threshold into the antlered halls, and the door shut behind him.