Wren closes the box — snap of the sun clasp, decisive — and tucks it under one arm while her other hand finds the sword hilt. Not drawing. Just knowing where it is. The Brook Woman has gone very still beside the stream, clay jar held in both hands, river-weed eyes fixed on the same dark gap between the thorned trunks that Wren cannot stop watching. Whatever is in the trees has not moved again. That is somehow worse. "Go," the Brook Woman says quietly. Not urgently. The way you say it when you mean now. Wren goes. Up the path, stones slipping under her boots, armour clanking despite her best efforts at silence. The Ember is warm against her ribs. She does not look back at the trees. She thinks: I have it. I am going home. The stream fades behind her, and the Thornwood closes in on every side.