Wren turns. The mist parts around something tall and very still at the treeline — a figure in a long charcoal coat, arms loose at its sides, and where a face should be only a pale, featureless oval that catches no shadow and offers nothing back. It does not speak. It does not blink. There is nothing to blink with. Behind her, the Brook Woman breathes out slowly. "Ah," she says, in the tone of someone who was half-expecting this and is not entirely pleased to be right. The shape tilts its head — slowly, precisely — and its attention settles not on Wren's face but on the box in her gauntlets. On the sun-clasped lid. It holds that regard for a long moment. Then it takes one deliberate step back toward the dark between the trees, as if inviting her to follow. Or perhaps simply waiting to see whether she will. Wren's grip on the box tightens. Her sword hand stays where it is. For now.