The armory smelled like oil and old leather.
Alistair had spread the map across the workbench, weighed down at the corners with spare ammunition boxes. The team stood around it—Cora with her arms crossed, Mason checking his gauntlets, Sera loading bolts into her quiver, Derek gripping his staff. Lucian stood at the head of the table, his twin blades laid out in front of him.
Voss was not there yet. She was waiting outside the Keep, in the shadows where the security lights didn't reach.
Alistair's voice was low. "The stronghold is an old textile mill on the east end. Valentine's people bought it six months ago. No one questioned it because the owners used a shell company." He tapped the map. "Sub‑basement. Three levels down. The pendant is in a ritual chamber at the lowest floor."
Cora's jaw was tight. "We're trusting her?"
"We're using her knowledge. Trust doesn't enter into it."
"What's the difference?"
