Wren sets off northeast along the streambank, the wooden box tucked carefully against her breastplate. The stream is her compass — she keeps it on her left, black water muttering over pale stones. The mist thickens as she walks; within the hour it has risen to her collarbone, and the great black-barked trees press so close that the morning light comes through grey and indirect, as if it has given up. An hour in, something makes her stop. Not a sound. Between two roots the size of cart wheels, half-dissolved in mist, stands a shape — tall and still, in a coat the colour of cold ash. A pale oval where a face ought to be, turned toward her. She holds the box tighter. "I see you," she says, which is either brave or foolish. The shape does not move. The mist shifts. When it settles, the roots are empty. Ahead, past a stream-spanning elder trunk, a pale clearing opens — old grey stone, ivy-bearded, and the unmistakable shape of a shrine.