Wren counts three steps past a white-barked trunk and steps sideways into the gap between two of them — off the line, into the shadow — and plants her feet and waits. The armor is loud even holding still. She holds still anyway. The not-quite-footsteps slow. Then stop. Mist. The distant sigh of the wood. Then a shape separates from the dark between trees: tall and gaunt, the long charcoal coat seeming to collect shadow rather than cloth. Where a face should be: a pale, featureless oval. It stands the way a cliff stands — simply there, enormous in its patience, watching her. It does not speak. It does not advance. Then, slowly, it lifts one hand and points. Not at her. East. Deeper along the pale corridor, toward Aldermere Hollow. Wren looks at the place where its face should be. "You're not trying to stop me," she says. It doesn't answer. It lowers its hand, and waits.