Wren's mouth opens to answer — borrowed, obviously — but what comes out instead is: "What does the box have to do with any of it?" The brook woman blinks. Then the corner of her mouth moves. Not quite a smile. Something closer to respect. "Quick," she says. "For a girl standing in a dead man's iron." She glances from Wren to the box, and back. "Both questions have the same answer." She lifts the box from the rock and sets it on her knee, the sun-clasp winking in the grey morning light. "He was supposed to carry this to Aldermere. The armor finds the road; the box goes with it — that was the arrangement." Her thumb settles on the clasp, not opening it, not letting go. "Since he isn't here, I suppose you'll do." A beat. "If you're willing to open it."