Bran adapted to Hollow Ridge with unnerving speed.
By day three he knew where Ivy hid the good coffee, how to dodge Nia’s “voluntary” sparring invitations, and precisely which chair in the big room would give him line of sight to every exit without looking like he was casing the place.
Which, of course, meant Lyra trusted him about as far as she could throw his truck.
She found him in the new common cabin late one afternoon, stretched out on the bench under the front window with a notebook open on his knees. Outside, the yard hummed; inside, it was quiet, the air smelling of fresh wood, old books, and Bran’s Thornridge‑sharp scent slowly blurring at the edges.
“You’re not supposed to make refuge look that comfortable,” Lyra said, leaning against the doorframe.
He smirked. “Careful, co
