Wren holds perfectly still, which is harder than it sounds in armor that is determined to announce itself. She manages it by barely breathing. The brook woman studies her — or rather studies the breastplate, the faded sun-sigil, the whole ill-fitting shape of a knight who clearly does not belong to herself. Then the woman's gaze slides sideways to the wooden box balanced on the rock, and back to Wren, with an expression that could be recognition or could be the particular patience of someone who has waited a very long time for something inconvenient. "You're not him," the woman says at last. Her voice is dry as autumn bark. She sets the clay jar down on a stone with the deliberate care of someone who has already made up her mind about several things. "But that sigil is his. Was his." She looks at Wren steadily. "So either you earned it, or you borrowed it. Which is it, girl?"