Wren does not move away from the water. Not yet. Her eyes go to the box on the flat rock, stream spray already pearling on its carved lid, and her feet make the decision before her better judgment can object. The sun clasp is bronze, she sees now — not iron. The same shape as the breastplate sigil, but older: longer rays, the centre disk polished smooth from handling. Where the sigil is worn and a little anonymous, the clasp is deliberate. A maker's mark, perhaps, or a vow. "It's not the same as the sigil," Wren says, not quite a question. The brook_woman watches her with the patience of someone waiting for a slow student to get there on their own. The stream fills the silence. Somewhere above them in the Thornwood, nothing moves — the particular kind of stillness that listens. "Gareth carried its twin," the brook_woman says at last. She lifts the box from the rock herself, pressing it firmly under one arm. "Come. There are ears here that don't belong to us."