Mai and Ty Lee laughed beside me.
The sound was light, effortless—exactly the kind of noise people made when they felt safe. Comfortable. Unaware.
We sat in the shade of the palace courtyard, servants lingering at a respectful distance. Ty Lee sprawled dramatically across the grass, talking animatedly about acrobatics she wanted to learn someday. Mai sat closer to me, quiet as always, eyes half-lidded with boredom.
They thought we were friends.
I encouraged that belief.
Friendship was useful. It lowered defenses. It invited trust.
I listened attentively as Ty Lee spoke, nodding at the right moments, laughing softly when she made a joke. When Mai spoke—rare, understated—I made sure to respond immediately, as though her words mattered more than anyone else's.
People notice that.
They crave it.
"You always understand me," Ty Lee said suddenly, smiling brightly. "Most people don't."
I tilted my head, expression warm. "That's because I pay attention."
True.
Just not in the way she imagined.
Mai glanced at me sideways. "You don't judge," she said flatly.
Another truth.
Judgment required emotional investment.
I didn't possess that weakness.
Instead, I offered them what they wanted most—acceptance shaped precisely to fit them.
To Ty Lee, I was encouragement. Approval. A place where her energy was celebrated, not restrained.
To Mai, I was silence. Space. The rare comfort of not being pressured to perform.
They leaned toward me without realizing it.
I never asked them to do anything serious. Not yet.
Just small things.
Stay a little longer. Sit closer. Ignore a servant's call. Choose me over others.
Each time they did, the habit deepened.
"I feel safer when you're around," Ty Lee said one afternoon, hugging her knees. "Like… nothing bad can happen."
Safety.
Such a fragile illusion.
Mai didn't speak—but she stayed.
That was enough.
I never threatened them. Never demanded loyalty. I didn't need to.
I made myself central.
Their confidence came from my approval. Their calm from my presence. Their sense of belonging slowly rearranged itself around me.
If they disagreed with me, I didn't argue.
I simply withdrew—just a little.
Silence was far more effective than anger.
They always corrected themselves.
Eventually.
I watched it happen with detached interest, like observing a structure settling into place. Not force. Not domination.
Alignment.
Would they disobey me now?
Of course they would—if they believed they could.
But that belief was already eroding.
One day, far in the future, I might ask for something difficult. Something costly.
And they would hesitate.
Briefly.
Then they would agree—because by then, saying no would feel like losing themselves.
I smiled softly as Ty Lee leaned against my shoulder and Mai sat just close enough to touch.
Loyalty doesn't come from fear alone.It comes from making yourself indispensable.
And I was very good at that.