"Then name it." The words are out before Wren has properly thought them through, but she does not take them back. "The moon was already rising when I left. I cannot stand here being studied AND go retrieve an Ember before it turns full. So name the test — or, with respect, let me pass." The brook woman's expression does not shift exactly, but something in it settles. A decision, reached. She lifts the wooden box from the rock and holds it between them, the sun clasp catching that amber thread of light again, patient as a candle. "The test is the box," she says simply. "The Ember of Aldermere cannot be carried in bare hands. It needs a vessel — one that belongs to someone it recognises. The box obeyed the knight. Whether it will accept you —" she extends it toward Wren — "I cannot answer that for you. Open it."