"You said he wasn't supposed to give it away." Wren doesn't phrase it as a question. The Brook Woman's gaze moves to the Thornwood. Whatever is in there has not taken a second step — but the mist has not quite settled. She is quiet a moment longer than comfortable. "The Order has a guardian," she says finally. "An old one. It walks the Thornwood each harvest, watching whoever comes through with the passage box. It tests the bearer. Not with blades." Her eyes come back to Wren. "With doubt. The weight of what you're already carrying, turned up loud." "Your knight walked this path twice and came through both times." She reaches into her coat. "The Ember sits at the Standing Stone, deep in the heart of the wood. The guardian walks beside whoever holds the clasp." She produces a small folded square of parchment, edges worn soft, and holds it out. "He sent this ahead. I was to give it only to someone wearing the sigil."