Word of the lanterns brought Ember back to the First Hearth. Its door stood open, but the room beyond had changed. The workbench was covered in perfect little worlds, each sealed beneath glass. Every forest had exactly the right number of trees. Every song ended on time. Nothing moved.
At the far end waited a figure wearing the Creator’s coat. It praised Ember’s brave journeys. It offered him magnificent wings, a voice that could command every Nest, and enough fire to make certain that no one would ever abandon a project again. All he had to do was keep the windows closed.
For a moment he pictured it: a thousand warm rooms, no broken lanterns, no frightened mapmakers. Then he looked beneath the glass. One tiny person stood beside an unfinished bridge. Her hands were empty. The world was perfect because she had been forbidden to change it.
Ember understood why the figure had chosen that coat. The Regent did not always arrive as a shadow. Sometimes it arrived as the promise that no one would ever have to risk disappointment. Sometimes it sounded like the person whose approval you missed the most.
He refused the wings. His little flame shook when he said it, and the figure laughed. Ember had no great speech ready. He simply placed Orin’s scorched lantern ring on the bench. Somewhere beyond the window, a maker saw its light and lifted another lantern. A silver road appeared along the sill.
Luna reached the room first. Flint followed with a shoulder full of stones. While the Regent tried to hold every perfect world still, the buddies opened one window. Wind scattered the plans. The little bridge maker picked up a fallen pencil. Beneath her glass, a new plank appeared.
They did not win the whole Hearth that night. The figure fled into a locked staircase with the Creator’s real whereabouts still hidden. But the front room belonged to possibility again. Ember built a fire low enough that small visitors could warm themselves without being burned.
Now he leaves a place beside that fire for anyone whose idea has gone wrong. His wings are still uneven. His first lantern ring is still crooked. Ask him whether he would trade them for perfect ones, and he will glance toward the open window before answering. He has learned how many lights a single room can hold.