Wren's mouth opens, closes, and then does something a real knight would probably never permit: instead of answering, she points. "What's in the box?" The brook woman blinks. For a moment the stream argues with itself over pale stones and nobody says anything at all. Then — not quite what Wren expected — the corner of the woman's mouth shifts. Not a smile. More like a door that has decided, after long deliberation, to open a crack. "That," the woman says, "is the better question." She lifts the wooden box from its rock and sets it in her lap with the unhurried care of someone who has been keeping a secret warm for a very long time. The sun-clasp catches the pale light filtering between the trees. "It's called the Ember of Aldermere. I've been minding it since the knight who owned that sigil stopped coming back." Her eyes find Wren's, steady as the current at their feet. "Now. Earned or borrowed?"