Wren turns her back on the stream and the Brook Woman's complicated expression, and starts back up the root-tangled slope. The Ember rides against her chest inside the breastplate — not blazing, just present, the way a good fire is present: steady, patient, mildly unimpressed by the surrounding dark. Its warmth comes through the iron. She finds this unreasonably reassuring. The Thornwood is not friendlier on the return. The mist has thickened while she wasn't watching, and the path — obvious enough coming down — has developed opinions about being obvious going back. She picks her footing carefully. The stream's argument fades behind her. Something settles in the branches overhead, then goes quiet in the way that is specifically different from being empty. Between two black-barked trunks where the mist eddies — something tall. Something still. Not a tree, not a shadow precisely, but occupying the space where shadow would stand if shadow had decided to take an interest. The warmth in the box dims. Just once. Just barely. Wren breathes out slowly. Certain, the Brook Woman said. She squares her shoulders under borrowed iron, and walks on.