They sent me to talk to Serin.
Not alone—Maera and Corren weren’t that reckless—but alone enough.
The official story was that I was escorting a tray of food and a canteen to the “guest room” he’d been given at the far end of the house. Unofficially, I was there because my resonance and his rituals were already tangled, and if anyone could read what he was really planning, it had to be me.
The room they’d given him was technically comfortable: bed, chair, a small table, a barred window that looked out over the back slope. No chains. No visible guards.
Wolves don’t need chains when scent tells them everything.
I nudged the door open with my elbow.
Serin sat in the chair, back to the wall, hands folded loosely. He looked perfectly at ease, like a man waiting for a meeting to start. Only
