Rain softened Grimridge's edges without making it gentler.
The pack house always held sound differently when the stone was damp, every footstep swallowed faster, every whisper turning into nothing before it could travel far. That should have made the night feel calmer, safer, harder to invade. Instead it made the air feel heavier, as though every scent and every intention clung stubbornly to the walls.
Sable stood in the upper corridor where Cassian had positioned her, visible rather than hidden, steady rather than displayed. The decision mattered more than pride. If someone inside these walls was reading movement, then her absence would become a signal. If she moved unpredictably, she might become bait for another attempt. Cassian was forcing the traitor to choose between acting blind or acting fast, and she was one of the variables he had placed intentionally.
