"Then name it," Wren says, steadier than she expected. "A task, a test — anything. The moon won't wait for me to feel ready." Not quite dignity, but honest, and she suspects that is the currency this woman deals in. The brook woman is quiet. Then the corner of her mouth moves — not quite a smile, but a close relation. "You can't earn a thing by asking to earn it," she says. "But you've already started." She opens the box. A thread of amber warmth breathes out and is gone before Wren can name it. She draws out a square of parchment marked with the same sun-shape as the clasp and sets it in Wren's gauntleted palm. "The knight was carrying the third key. He meant to pass it on. You're apparently what passes for next of kin." A pause, dry as autumn. "One more thing: the Ember of Aldermere is not a flame. It's a door."