Wren's mouth moves ahead of her better judgment. "That box," she says, and her voice comes out steadier than she deserves. "The sun clasp. Where did you get it?" The figure turns fully. She is small and wiry, white hair tucked under a damp hood, eyes the colour of old river-weed — patient, and amused in the particular way of someone who has been surprising people for a very long time. She looks at Wren. She looks at the sigil pressed into the borrowed breastplate. Something shifts in her expression, not quite surprise but its well-mannered cousin. "Where did *you* get that?" she says, nodding at the faded sun on the iron, with the courtesy of someone asking about the weather and meaning something else entirely. The stream mutters over its pale stones. The box sits between them on the flat rock, sun clasp catching no light but somehow gleaming anyway. Somewhere deeper in the Thornwood, a branch shifts — and then goes very still, listening.