The brook woman steps forward — something more settled in the motion than before — and holds the wooden box out. The sun clasp catches a thread of light, and the amber pulse from inside shifts: still slow, but more awake, the way a fire brightens when someone turns toward it. "Near enough," the woman says. Not a great endorsement. Exactly as large as intended. Wren takes the box in both hands. It is warmer than the wood should be. For a moment nothing stirs. Then a faint pressure hums against her palms, as if something inside has just turned its face to consider her — the sigil on her breastplate, specifically. It cannot know the borrowing. It only knows the sun. "North," the brook woman says, as Wren looks up. "Follow the stream until the stones go white. After that, trust it." A pause, dry as old bark. "Don't dawdle. The moon is already looking."