The brook_woman's pale eyes settle on Wren with the patience of someone who has not been surprised in a very long time. Wren is acutely aware of her own breathing — fast, loud, not at all knightly — and of the way one pauldron has quietly migrated sideways and is making a credible bid to become a hat. She points to the wooden box, the sun clasp catching what little light the Thornwood permits. "Does that hold the Ember of Aldermere?" The old woman looks at the box. Then at the breastplate. Then at Wren's face, which is probably not doing anything particularly impressive. She makes a sound that is either a laugh or a single note of an old song. "The sigil opens it," she says, nodding at the breastplate. "Whether it should be opened — that depends entirely on who is wearing it, doesn't it." She sets the clay jar down on a stone, unhurried as weather. "Convince me you're the right one, and perhaps we can discuss it."