The second night did not bring rest. It brought silence that felt arranged.
Sable sensed it before she opened her door the next morning, the pack house holding itself too carefully, as if everyone had agreed on a temporary truce that could shatter if someone moved too fast or spoke too openly. The hum of routine was still there, but it had thinned, stretched tight by the knowledge that Cassian had intervened once and might do so again if pushed too openly.
Grimridge was adapting.
She dressed slowly, her movements deliberate, the pain in her ribs and shoulder no longer sharp but persistent, a reminder that the price of visibility was paid daily, not all at once. When she stepped into the corridor, no one stopped her. No one greeted her either. She was allowed to move, but not invited to exist.
