Sable woke to the thin, gray light of dawn and the ache of a body that hadn't been allowed to finish healing before it was demanded again.
Her cheek throbbed beneath the bruise, her shoulder protested when she shifted, and the inside of her mouth still stung where she'd bitten it hard enough to taste blood. For a few seconds she lay perfectly still, listening to the service corridors beyond her room as they came to life with quiet footsteps and muffled work, the sound of servants moving early because the pack liked to wake to comfort they hadn't earned.
Her eyes went to the door before anything else, because that was where fear lived now.
The lock held.
It sat in the wood as if it had always been there, solid and ordinary, and she should have felt relief because it meant the night couldn't repeat itself as easily. Instead, the sight made something tighten low in her stomach, because she couldn't look at the repaired metal without seeing Cassian's hands in her mind, calm and efficient, as if fixing her door had been as simple as fixing a problem in his territory.
That was the most dangerous part of it.
Not that he had helped, but that he had done it quietly, without explanation, and then left her alone with the consequences.
Sable forced the memory down where she kept everything she wasn't allowed to feel. She dressed quickly in the same worn clothes, tied her hair back with controlled hands, and refused to touch her face even though it hurt, because she hated the instinct to cradle pain. Pain was predictable. Softness was not.
When she stepped into the corridor, cold air met her like a slap, and the service wing looked the same as always: narrow stone, low light, the faint smell of soap and damp fabric. Still, something was different. The workers she passed didn't speak to her the way they usually did, which was not at all, but they also didn't ignore her as smoothly.
Their eyes flicked to her bruised cheek, to the tightness in her shoulder, and then away again too quickly, as if they'd been warned not to stare and couldn't help themselves.
Sable kept walking, her posture steady, her pace even, because the pack loved to read fear in the smallest movements. If she slowed, she would be listening. If she listened, she would be reacting. If she reacted, she would become entertainment.
She heard the whispers anyway.
They followed behind her like smoke, soft enough that the speakers could pretend they were being careful, sharp enough that the words still landed.
"Her door was broken."
"I heard they went in."
"She fought them."
"No, she didn't."
"I swear she did. Liora's arm was bruised."
Sable's fingers tightened around the strap of her work bag. She didn't turn. She didn't demand names. She didn't ask questions she already knew the answers to, because in Grimridge a story didn't need truth to become a weapon. It only needed enough mouths to repeat it until the pack decided it felt real.
The kitchens were already hot when she arrived, steam thick in the air and the smell of bread and broth pressing against the stone walls. Normally the noise would have steadied her, because work was work and work was survival, but the moment she stepped inside she felt the shift. Conversations didn't stop, but they stumbled, as if people couldn't decide whether speaking around her was safe. A few servants glanced up, caught her bruised cheek, then snapped their eyes away as if the sight burned.
Sable went straight to the task board.
Her name sat at the bottom, as always, written smaller than the others like an afterthought that still needed to be used. Laundry. Dish rotation. Hall cleanup. Work that kept her visible just long enough for someone to remember she existed, then invisible again the moment they were finished with her.
She tore the assignment strip free, folded it once, and tucked it into her pocket without letting her expression change. Predictability was a kind of armor, and she needed it today.
A pot clanged behind her, louder than necessary, and a few voices fell into a hush before they rose again in murmurs that felt too pointed to be accidental. Sable lifted a basket of linens and moved toward the wash-house, refusing to look for the source. Looking for the source was how you invited a target onto your back.
She was halfway down the corridor when an older woman stepped into her path.
Mara didn't touch her, but she stood close enough that Sable had to stop, and that alone made Sable's shoulders tighten. Mara's hands were red from years of hot water and harsh soap, her sleeves rolled up, her expression hard in the practical way of someone who had learned which kinds of sympathy got you hurt.
Mara's eyes flicked to Sable's cheek and lingered just long enough to make Sable's stomach sink.
"You're going to be careful today," Mara said quietly, not a question.
Sable tried to step around her. "I'm always careful."
Mara shifted to block her again, and the movement was small but deliberate. "No," she murmured, "you're always quiet. Those are not the same thing."
Sable's jaw tightened. "Move."
Mara's gaze sharpened. "They're talking," she said, voice low enough that only Sable could hear, "and when Grimridge talks like this, it's because they want the story to grow teeth."
Sable tightened her grip on the basket handle. "Let them talk."
Mara exhaled through her nose, the sound almost angry. "They're not just talking about you fighting," she whispered. "They're talking about why you survived it."
Sable went very still, because she already knew what came next and she hated how her body reacted before her mind could.
Mara's voice lowered another fraction. "They're saying the lock was fixed," she continued, "and they're saying it was fixed fast, and they're saying that doesn't happen in this wing unless someone important wanted it to happen."
Sable's throat went dry. "Servants fix locks."
Mara looked at her like Sable had insulted her intelligence. "Not that kind of lock," she said. "Not after midnight, and not without someone noticing."
Sable stared at her, fighting to keep her face blank, fighting to keep her breathing even. If she confirmed anything—if she looked surprised, if she looked frightened, if she looked like the rumor mattered—then it would become a certainty in everyone's mind by lunchtime.
Mara studied her for a long beat, then her expression softened only in the sense that it grew more serious. "Listen to me," she murmured. "If wolves think you have an invisible shield, they'll poke it until they figure out whether it's real, and you'll be the one who bleeds while they test it."
Sable swallowed, her mouth dry. "I don't have a shield."
Mara's eyes held hers, steady and unkindly honest. "Then act like you don't," she said. "Keep your head down, keep your hands busy, and don't give them a reason to drag you into the middle of the room again."
Sable's stomach twisted, because she understood the warning and hated that she needed it. She stepped around Mara without answering, carrying the linens into the wash-house where heat and steam made it easier to pretend the world was only soap and fabric and work.
She scrubbed until her fingers stung, wrung cloth until her shoulder burned, and kept her eyes on the basins so she didn't have to look at anyone's face. Still, the whispers seeped through the service wing like damp through stone, catching on corners and slipping into every room.
"She fought."
"She should've been punished."
"She wasn't alone."
"Who would help her?"
Sable kept her mouth shut, because the only safe answer was none.
By the time the kitchen bell signaled the next serving shift, her arms ached and her patience had worn thin. She lifted a tray, set her jaw, and headed toward the dining hall with controlled steps, telling herself she could get through one more day if she didn't let the pack see her flinch.
As she reached the corridor that led into the main room, she felt it again: that subtle change in the air that came when rank and attention gathered in the same place. It wasn't comfort. It wasn't safety. It was the sense of stepping into a space where rumors could turn into decisions, and decisions could turn into punishment.
Sable took a slow breath, lifted her chin just enough to look like she belonged to her own body, and walked forward anyway, because she had never been given the luxury of stopping.