Mist didn't fall like rain. It crept.
It slid between the orchard trees and the stone wall beyond the outer courtyard, turning lantern light into pale smears and making every scent feel like a suggestion rather than a certainty. Weather like this made wolves careless in a very specific way. It made them believe the world would blur their mistakes for them.
Grimridge didn't blur. It tightened.
Sable stayed in the upper wing where Cassian had placed her, visible in the corridor instead of tucked away behind a locked door. She hated how much that mattered, hated that she could almost hear the logic behind it the way she heard the distant shift of guards on wet stone. If she vanished from sight, it would become a signal. If she moved too freely, she became an opportunity. Cassian refused to give the traitor clean information either way, so he kept her in a place that looked ordinary from a distance and controlled from up close.
Her body didn't care about appearances.
