The chair was not comfortable.
Flinn had established this within the first ten minutes and had spent the subsequent hours confirming it with the thoroughness of someone who had nothing else to do and no interest in the alternative activity on offer, which was answering Dreck's questions.
The waystation was functional and nothing else — stone walls that had absorbed decades of weather without complaint, a floor that hadn't been swept in longer than the current occupants had been here, two lanterns placed for practicality rather than any other consideration. Four hunters inside. Three of them positioned at various points around the room with the patient stillness of professionals who knew how to wait. One of them walking.
Dreck.
