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The six-armed automaton remains rigid and lifeless. Its turn passes without action.

Brokk does not swing. He sets his shield, war hammer in his right hand, and takes a mason's look at the six-armed thing: joints, stone or metal, whether the gnomes signed the work, whether it is seated in the floor or merely standing. He keeps two paces of reach and does not touch it. "Still as a lintel. If it wakes, I am first."

Brokk circles it without touching. The figure stands free on the floor rather than being fixed into it, and he sees no maker’s signature. Its visible joints remain locked. In the middle of its back is a shallow, lightning-bolt-shaped indentation.

Jonas does not close to touching-range. He keeps Brokk between himself and the figure, staff in both hands more as a measuring-stick than a weapon, and leans just far enough to put the reading-lens on the lightning-bolt hollow in its back. "That which amends," he says, mostly to Tilde, as if the argument has followed them into the closet. "If it is a socket, it is liturgical, not a maker's mark. Look for Temple Gnomish on the joints, the palms, the inside of the arms — not trade-script. I am not putting a hand in it." He studies without touching: whether the indentation is scored with characters, whether the locked joints carry the same register as the great door, and whether the thing looks repaired or merely waiting. Sleep stays on his tongue.

Through the lens, Jonas finds no characters in the hollow, on the exposed joints, or on the palms he can see. The lightning-bolt shape is regular and purpose-cut, not a break or repair scar. Nothing on the inert figure visibly matches the door-script.

Kell does not touch it. He stays off Brokk's shoulder, sword low, shield covering the space between Jonas and the six-armed thing, and looks at it the way he looks at a man who has not yet drawn. Six arms. He counts them twice. No blades in the hands he can see. Joints locked like a man holding still on purpose. The bolt-shaped hole in its back is just a hole to him — regular, cut, waiting for something that is not here. "If it wakes, it has six," he says, quiet. "I take the door. You two stay behind Brokk." He does not put a hand in the hollow. He watches the joints and the doorway both.

From his post, Kell can see that each of the six hands grips a short sword; the blades are held motionless with the locked arms. Neither the joints nor the east door moves while he keeps watch.

Tilde does not close. She stays behind Brokk's shield-line with the minute book still under her arm and the holy symbol in her off-hand, mace undrawn. Six swords, locked. A bolt-shaped socket in the back, purpose-cut, empty. She has seen that shape before — not on a maker's plate, on a rubbing from a door-lintel the rag-man sold her as scrap. Liturgical seating, not a wound. The congregation roll said the guardians took a charge in the spine and then they did not stop. "Do not seat anything in it," she says, quiet, to all three of them. "Not a key, not a finger, not the symbol. If it is waiting, it is waiting for a charge. We catalogue from here." She watches the joints the way Kell watches the door, and she does not put a hand near the hollow. Remove Fear sits on her tongue in case the waiting ends.

Tilde’s watch draws no response. The six swords, joints, and snake-like eyes remain utterly still; Remove Fear remains unspent.

With nothing placed in the socket, the automaton remains inert and takes no action.

Brokk does not close the last two paces and does not put a finger near the hollow. Hammer stays in his right hand, shield covering the others. He takes the mason's look off the automaton and onto the closet itself: the walls, the floor it stands on, whether the stone was dressed to receive a guardian or whether this thing was wheeled in later, settlement cracks, gnomish hollow-work, any clan mark his family would have left. He speaks without turning. "Standing free. Not seated in the floor. If it was meant to guard this closet, they never finished the footing. We catalogue from here, as Tilde says. I am still first if the joints unlock."

The visible floor runs level and unbroken around the automaton’s feet, with no plinth or fastening. Brokk finds no clan mark or sign of hollow-work from where he stands, though the figure itself hides the stone directly beneath it. Broken shelves line the walls; moldy gnome-sized robes cover parts of the floor.

Jonas does not close. He keeps Brokk between himself and the six swords, staff still in both hands, and turns the reading-lens on the broken shelves and the moldy gnome-sized robes instead of the automaton. "Standing free, no footing, no script on the joints," he says, quiet, mostly to Tilde. "If they wheeled it in, the closet may still hold the charge-rite or a congregation roll. Look for Temple Gnomish on the shelf-edges, the robe hems, anything that is not trade-script. I am not touching the cloth and I am not seating anything." He studies without approaching: whether the robes are liturgical vestments or salvage, whether any fragment of door-register survives on wood or cloth, and whether the shelves were dressed to hold a guardian's charge. Sleep stays on his tongue. That which amends remains an argument, not an experiment.

Jonas sees no writing or insignia on the exposed shelf-edges or robe hems. The shelves appear to be simple storage shelves, now broken. Mold and folds hide much of the robes, so he cannot determine their original use without handling them.

Kell does not close and does not touch the robes. He stays off Brokk's shoulder, sword low, shield covering the space between Jonas and the six-armed thing, and keeps the east door in the edge of his eye. Six short swords, still locked. Floor cluttered with moldy cloth. He looks at the robes the way he looks at a pile that could hide a second man or snag a boot if they have to give ground — not what they were for, whether anything under them is moving. "Still locked. Door's still ours. Don't stir the cloth," he says, quiet. "If it wakes, I take the door. You stay behind Brokk." He watches the joints and the doorway both. He does not put a hand near the hollow.

No robe shifts, bulges, or otherwise betrays movement beneath it. The automaton and locked east door remain still under Kell’s watch.

Tilde does not close and does not stir the cloth. She stays behind Brokk’s shield-line, minute book under her arm, holy symbol in her off-hand, mace still undrawn. She takes in the rest of the closet from where she stands: broken storage-shelves, not dressed for a charge-rite; gnome-sized robes gone to mould, covering the floor in folds that could hide a second footing or a dropped key. The automaton stands free — wheeled in, or never finished. The bolt-socket waits empty. Snake-eyes still. “No charge-rite on the shelves we can see. The robes are salvage until someone handles them, and we will not. Standing free means this closet may not be its station. We have what the Fellowship came for: the guardian, the socket, the swords locked. Do not seat. Do not lift the cloth.” She watches the joints the way Kell watches the door. Remove Fear stays on her tongue. If the minutes are all that leave this room, they will say we did not wake it.

The automaton gives no response. The party completes its inspection without touching the socket, robes, or guardian; no combat begins, and the encounter ends with everyone unharmed.