Wren stops. Half a breath later, behind her: nothing. Whatever-where-footsteps-would-be stops too. She turns. The Watcher is closer than she had imagined — standing between the second and third white-barked trees back, still as a winter-struck thing. It is tall. Its charcoal coat does not move in the air that moves everything else. Where its face should be is a smooth pale oval with no features at all, and yet she has the absolute impression that it is looking at her. Her hand finds the dead knight's sword hilt without consulting her. The armor announces this loudly to the whole corridor. The Watcher does not flinch. It does not advance. It raises one long-fingered hand — unhurried, precise — and points. Not at her. Past her. East, into the thinning mist. The direction of Aldermere. Wren's grip on the hilt does not loosen. The Watcher holds the gesture, steady as a signpost, as if it has all the time in the world and knows something about timelines that she doesn't.