Wren pulls the sword free — it catches the grey mist-light and declares itself present, which is the best she can say for it. The shape halts at the treeline's edge. Tall and gaunt, long charcoal coat hanging without wind to move it, and where a face should be there is only a pale oval, smooth as old bone. It does not flinch from the blade. It looks at the sigil on the breastplate — that same careful attention the Brook Woman gave it, only emptier. Then it looks at the box. The box hums. One low note, barely there, like a string plucked inside a closed room. The Watcher's arms rise from its sides — slowly, without threat, with something Wren would call recognition if she trusted what she was seeing. Behind her, the Brook Woman exhales. "It isn't here for us," she says, very quietly. "Wren. Lower the sword."