The vote is not a cheer. It is a hinge.

Cole says, “Gate in the fence. No horn hunt.” His voice sounds like a man stepping off a millstone. Elder Briar repeats the elves’ rules: dawn-watch later, counted, downwind, no ropes, no taking. Nan adds, for anyone still greedy for wonder, that the holy story can keep its job without a trophy.

Voss does not get a tusk from Elderwood. He may buy wool. He may tell a sea-story on the next road, which is, for once, the right biome.

You and Mira measure the fence at the pile of turning tracks. A gap. A latch sheep will hate and deer will understand. Thorn tests it with a stick, then with patience.

Dusk, later, shows cloven prints going through.

The mill still owes a tax term. Bread will be a problem until dawn-watch coin or wool or both. But the keystone is not in a crate. The under-song is not a rumor you sold.

Elder Briar, from the fern-edge, calls you messenger, which is better than hero.

You go home smelling of leaf-mould and cold water, richer than silver and unable to spend it, which is how forests prefer their friends.

THE END

What you learned: a wildlife gate is cheaper than a cursed trophy. Keystone living things hold a community together; councils can protect them with hinges and rules, not just with awe. Elves make good neighbors when you treat their forest etiquette as law.