Bryn volunteered before anyone could stop him.
“We need eyes on the outside of that place,” he said, tapping a rough sketch Corren had drawn on the kitchen table—a ridge, the sealed tunnels beneath, a vague circle where the knot might surface on Serin’s side. “You’ve got Tavis’ view from the inside. I’ll find the shell.”
Maera frowned. “Serin did not build his half of this on our land alone. That complex stretches onto his formal territory. You sneak too far in, you don’t come back.”
“Good thing I’m charming,” Bryn said. “And hard to kill.”
I snorted. “You’re allergic to boredom. That’s not a qualification.”
He winked. “Motivation, moonshine. Very important.”
Corren’s mouth tightened. He leaned over the map—a real one now, spread under the sketch. Ridges, streams, old logging roads.
