The lair felt smaller that night.
Not because walls had shifted or the ceilings lowered, but because the weight of attention had changed. I noticed it the moment I stepped into the main room: eyes scanning, voices lower, subtle shifts in posture. Everyone knew something had shifted, though no one said it aloud.
I had overheard snippets earlier, as I moved between corridors and supply racks. Names I didn't know, murmurs of factions, a tense assessment of loyalties, a quiet debate about whether "bringing Vale in" had been reckless.
I didn't react.
I didn't need to.
Because when it came to Cager, the unspoken carried more weight than words ever could.
She appeared from the shadows of the staircase, tall, controlled, aura sharp enough to cut the tension in the room. Everyone fell slightly quieter, almost imperceptibly, as if her presence alone reminded them that silence could be a weapon.
She stopped beside me. Close enough that I felt her shoulder brush mine, but not enough to touch. Close enough that it made my pulse take note.
Her gaze swept the room. No one met it. That was the rule here. Not obedience. Awareness. Survival.
And when she spoke, it was brief.
"Enough chatter," she said. Voice quiet, but it carried. "Positions. Eyes forward. Nothing happens without observation."
I fell into place beside her, just as she intended. My proximity was deliberate. Visible. Recognized.
I noticed how the room reacted. Subtle movements, cautious glances. The others weren't just measuring me—they were measuring her through me. It wasn't a compliment. It wasn't a challenge. It was calculation.
And I realized, for the first time in weeks, that being close to Cager made me an equation in the minds of everyone in the lair. I was part of a system, and the variables were dangerous.
We moved through the evening with precision. I mirrored her posture, kept my breathing steady, kept my eyes where they needed to be. I wasn't perfect. I knew that. But I also knew that missteps here would not just be mine—they would be hers to manage.
During a pause, a minor faction member approached, testing, speaking just loud enough for the room to hear. His words were polite, practiced, but his eyes betrayed curiosity—and unease.
I didn't respond. I didn't need to.
Cager's hand shifted, just slightly. A micro-adjustment to my arm, light enough to be invisible to anyone else, heavy enough to make me aware.
The man faltered mid-sentence. His eyes flicked to me, then to her. And then he retreated.
She stepped back, giving me space, but her presence lingered. I realized then that every movement, every pause, every adjustment was both instruction and test.
Later, alone, I caught her watching me. Not critically. Not aggressively. Just observing.
I wondered if she realized what she was doing or if it had become instinctual.
Her face was unreadable, but I saw the lines tighten around her eyes, the faint clenching of her jaw. She almost spoke, almost stepped closer, almost crossed the invisible line that hung between us.
She didn't.
Not yet.
But the tension remained, thick, tangible, coiled.
And I understood, more clearly than ever, that my place beside her wasn't just about survival or duty. It was about recognition, and influence, and the silent negotiation of presence.
It was dangerous.
It was magnetic.
And when she finally turned away, leaving me in the quiet of the room, I realized that the unspoken between us had become something I couldn't ignore.
Whatever this was this weight, this pull, this quiet acknowledgment it was growing.
And it wasn't going to be quiet for much longer.