The morning after always tells the truth.
Not in words. In movement. In what people avoid. In where they stand.
I noticed it before anyone spoke to me.
The lair woke slowly, like it always did. Cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling, stale and familiar. Someone knocked over a crate near the back corridor and cursed under their breath. Cards slapped against a table. Boots scraped concrete. Normal sounds. Normal rhythm.
But the spacing was wrong.
People gave me room.
Not obvious enough to be polite. Not wide enough to be fear. Just enough to say I was being seen in a different way.
I adjusted my jacket and kept moving.
Cager wasn't in the main room.
That alone set my nerves on edge. She was usually already there by now, leaning against the pillar near the stairs, watching without being obvious about it. When she wasn't present, the air felt unguarded, like a blade left on a table instead of a sheath.
Nyra caught my eye from across the room. She raised a brow, then flicked her gaze toward the corridor that led deeper into the building.
I took the hint.
The hallway smelled like oil and metal. Training room. I slowed my steps, not because I was afraid of interrupting, but because instinct told me to measure the moment before stepping into it.
Cager stood near the rack of knives, sleeves rolled to her forearms. The light caught the scars there, thin white lines crossing darker skin, old and healed but never erased. Her hair was pulled back tight, dark and sharp against her jawline. Her posture was controlled as always, but something about the set of her shoulders told me she hadn't slept much.
She didn't look at me right away.
"You're late," she said.
I checked the clock on the wall. I wasn't.
"I didn't know I had a time," I replied.
She finally turned. Her eyes flicked over me, quick and precise, like she was checking for damage that hadn't happened. It lasted half a second. Still, I felt it.
"You do now," she said. "When you're training."
Training.
The word landed heavier than it should have.
She reached for a blade, spinning it once between her fingers before setting it down. The movement was smooth, practiced, almost careless. I had learned by now that nothing she did was careless.
"Show me what you remember," she said.
I stepped forward.
The floor was cold under my boots. I picked up the knife she had left, felt its weight settle into my palm. I moved through the sequence she had taught me. Foot placement. Balance. Angle. Control.
She circled me slowly.
"Your grip is still too tight," she said. "You're fighting the blade instead of letting it work."
"I don't like trusting things that can cut me," I said.
That earned a look.
"Then you're in the wrong place," she replied. "Everything here can cut you."
She stepped closer, close enough that I felt her presence before I fully registered her position. Her hand came up, adjusting my wrist. She didn't linger. Didn't need to. The contact was brief but deliberate.
"Again," she said.
I repeated the movement. It felt smoother this time.
She nodded once.
That nod mattered more than praise ever could.
There was a pause after. Not awkward. Just quiet. The kind that stretches when two people are both aware of the same thing and refuse to name it.
"People are watching you," she said finally.
I met her gaze. "They already were."
"Not like this."
I waited.
"They're questioning my judgment," she continued. "That makes you a liability if you don't prove me right."
The words were sharp, but her tone wasn't cruel. It was honest. That was worse.
"I didn't ask you to put your reputation on the line," I said.
"No," she agreed. "You didn't."
Her eyes stayed on mine. I noticed the faint tension there, the way her jaw tightened when she held the look too long.
"But you're here," she added. "Which means it's already done."
Something about that settled low in my chest.
"I won't embarrass you," I said.
Her mouth curved, just barely. Not a smile. Something closer to recognition.
"I know," she replied.
That was the moment I understood.
It wasn't trust. Not fully.
It was choice.
She was choosing me, again, in ways that were visible now. And that choice carried weight. It shifted how others saw me. It shifted how I saw myself.
A voice echoed from the hallway. Mace. Asking for Cager.
Her expression changed instantly, walls snapping back into place. She stepped away from me, space returning like it had never been breached.
"Stay sharp," she said quietly. "And stay close today."
Then she was gone.
I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, knife still in my hand, heartbeat steady but loud in my ears.
I wasn't running.
And I wasn't fighting.
Not yet.
But whatever line existed between those two instincts was starting to blur.
And I had a feeling that when it finally snapped into focus, it would be Cager standing on the other side of it, watching to see which way I went.