Wren stops. The figure hasn't moved, but something in the way it occupies the mist has shifted — an attentiveness, a waiting. Her thumb finds the sun-clasp without quite deciding to. She presses it. The lid clicks shut, and the warmth settles deeper inside the iron, contained and patient. The Watcher turns. Not quickly. Not the way something caught turns. It moves the way old doors open — with the deliberate patience of something that has been waiting for exactly this moment — and begins to move away through the black-barked trees. Wren follows. This is, objectively, not the plan. The plan was straight home, moon gaining, no detours. But the sun on her breastplate and the sun on the box are the same sun, and she has been carrying borrowed things long enough to want to know whose they were. The mist closes around them both. The Ember, sealed and steady, does not dim.