The Brook Woman's hand lifts from the clasp. Not reluctantly — decisively, the way you set down something heavy at last. "The armor is enough," she says. "He would have said so." Wren doesn't wait: she takes the box in both gauntleted hands. It is lighter than she expected, and warm, faintly, through the iron. She rises. At the tree line the Watcher shifts — not away. Forward. One long and silent step into the mist. The Brook Woman does not look at it. She looks at Wren. "Straight up the path. Don't stop. Don't answer if it speaks." She lifts the clay jar from the stone, and Wren understands she is being given a head start. Wren turns and climbs, the box pressed against the faded sun-sigil on her breastplate, mist breaking around her boots. Behind her, very softly, the Brook Woman begins to hum.