Wren's hand moves before the sensible part of her can argue. The box is lighter than she expects and warmer than the cold air deserves, and the Brook Woman lets go with a small exhale that has lived next door to relief for a long time. "Order of the Aldermere Sun," the old woman says, half to herself. "Your knight was sworn to keep the passage clear for whoever carries the Ember home. The clasp passes between members at initiation — or at a last hand-off, when someone knows they won't finish the road." She nods at the faded sun-sigil on the breastplate. "He was passing it forward." Wren looks down at the box in her gauntlets. "To me?" "To whoever wore the armour," the Brook Woman says. Not quite an answer. Very much one. Somewhere deeper in the Thornwood, the presence shifts — one slow, deliberate step — and the mist along the stream shivers.