Wren takes one deliberate step back — not far, but enough. The box stays extended between them, patient as a held breath. "Before I do," she says, "tell me who he was. The knight. You were waiting for someone who never came. You knew him — more than I do." She keeps her voice level. "What was his name? How did he earn it? If this box only opens for someone it recognises — I'd like to know what that recognition is built on." The brook woman holds the box without trembling. Something in her expression shifts — not quite softening, but allowing. "Carran," she says at last. "His name was Carran. Youngest son of a barley farmer, and he never let anyone make him ashamed of it. He earned that sigil six years ago on a night worse than this one, and he never spoke of it to anyone who didn't already know." She tilts her chin toward the box. "He was also afraid, the first time he opened it. He opened it anyway." The box waits.