The safe house smells like ash and old wood. Candles guttering low, makeshift curtains nailed over cracked windows, the distant sound of something wrong moving outside. You came back from the scavenging run with more than supplies. The box sits on the table now - palm-sized, heavy, sealed with a symbol that makes your eyes slide off it like oil on water. Nobody touches it. Nobody leaves. Riven stands at the edge of the light, jaw tight, watching it. Sable is already tracing the symbol with one finger, lips moving. Cael hasn't looked at it directly in ten minutes - and he won't say why. The trail that's been pulling at you for weeks ends here. Or starts here. You're not sure which is worse.