Wren's hand leaves the hilt. This takes more effort than drawing the sword would have. "The others," she says, to the oval, to the still coat, to whatever is listening behind that pale nothing of a face. "The two who came before me. Did you point them east too?" The Watcher lowers its arm. Slowly — it does everything slowly, with the unhurried patience of something that has never once been late. Then it opens its other hand, palm up. Resting in it: a small scrap of cloth, grey with grime, once white. Wren's stomach drops. The parchment inside her breastplate is also torn — a corner missing, she'd assumed from haste or weather. The scrap is exactly the right size. The Watcher holds it out. Patient as a signpost. Patient as winter. She reaches for it, and it does not pull away.