"Wait," Wren says, before her feet quite decide to move. "The box — what was it actually testing for?" The brook woman pauses in the act of retrieving her clay jar. She considers the question the way old people consider questions — not as inconvenience, but as a thing worth getting right. "Not whether you were worthy," she says. "Knights are worthy. They earn sigils, fill their names with deeds. The box knows nothing of worthiness." She tucks the jar under one arm. "It asks a simpler question. Whether you understand what you're agreeing to carry." Wren looks down at the open box in her bare hand. The dark lining, still waiting. "The village," she says. "And everything that implies." The brook woman tips her worn felt hat against the morning light. "The Shrine will have its own questions. Harder in some ways." A pause. "Go before the light shifts, girl. The why of things is best understood after you've done them."