The sword clears the scabbard with a sound the stream water doesn't cover. Heavier than she expected — the grip worn smooth by someone else's decades — and Wren plants her feet in the gravel between the Brook Woman and the treeline, armor rattling at the joints. The Watcher does not retreat. It tilts its featureless head, slowly, the way you angle toward a word you almost recognize. Its attention, if it has one, settles on the sun-sigil on the breastplate. Behind her, the sun clasp opens with a small click. 'The oath names the armor,' the Brook Woman says, low and certain, 'not the man inside it.' The box settles into Wren's free hand — solid, warmer than the cold morning has any right to, heavier than it looks. Something stirs inside against her gauntlet, like a coal that never quite went out. 'Go now. Don't look at what's inside.' The Watcher takes one step. Just one. Mist curls where its coat sweeps the stones.