The Ember sits warm against Wren's borrowed breastplate as she asks. The Brook Woman does not look surprised by the question. She settles back on her heels, river-weed cloak dripping softly, and lets the stream do the talking for a moment. "He came through three winters back," she says at last. "Found the box the same way you did. Carried the Ember home — or most of the way home." A pause. "Doubt found him on the road. Somewhere between the wood's edge and the first field, he looked at the light in his hands and thought: what if I am not enough for this? And the Ember agreed with him." She says it without cruelty. "He turned back. Left the clasp on that rock. Walked into the Thornwood and did not come out." The mist moves. The stream argues with its stones. Wren holds the Ember a little tighter. "I have been tending my fire here since," the Brook Woman says, "waiting for someone who would not ask the Ember's permission to believe in themselves."