Wren's directness catches the brook woman mid-pause. "Is the Ember in that box," Wren says, "and how many nights before the moon is full?" The brook woman's mouth curves — not quite a smile, more the expression of someone pleased a question arrived quickly. "Three nights," she says. "Three, if the sky cooperates." She lifts the lid. Inside, on worn cloth, sits a small iron disc on a leather cord, etched with the same sun as the breastplate, glowing faintly amber — as if it has been sitting in sunlight all morning, except there is no sunlight here. "A finder-stone. The knight made it. It pulls toward the Ember the way a compass finds north, and grows warmer as you close the distance." She holds it out by the cord. "He reached the Ashwood ford, east of here. Then he didn't reach anywhere else." A beat — courteous but honest. "The Ember is in the Aldermere Barrow beyond that ford. Under a stone the sun hasn't touched in forty years."