It started with a whisper.
I was sorting through supplies in the lower storeroom when Faye appeared again, leaning against the doorway with that same casual tension in her stance. She didn't speak right away. Just tilted her head, eyes flicking to the top of the stairs.
"Someone's asking," she said finally, voice low, almost hesitant. "About Cager."
I froze mid-motion. My fingers lingered over the edge of a box. "Who?"
Faye's lips pressed together. "A name from before. Someone she… didn't finish with. Or someone who didn't finish with her."
I swallowed. It wasn't a threat. Not yet. But I felt the air shift, the quiet pressure around me tighten.
"Why tell me?" I asked.
"Because you need to know." Her eyes met mine, sharp and certain. "And because it matters that you understand what's coming."
I nodded. Even as I did, a part of me wondered what I had walked into. Cager's past wasn't just shadows behind her eyes; it was fire, and I could feel it brushing close.
By nightfall, the name had made itself known. A message, intercepted before it reached the lair, bore it. A small slip of paper folded into a thin envelope, the letters smudged but legible.
The name: Riven.
I didn't know him. Not personally. But the tension I felt in the room when I showed the envelope to Grim, Mako, and Faye was unmistakable. Everyone moved differently. Every glance and shift carried weight.
When I finally brought the envelope to Cager, she was already standing in the training room, silent as always, her figure outlined against the dim light. The moment I handed it over, her fingers brushed mine—light, accidental, but deliberate enough to send a charge through me.
Her eyes scanned the message. Not quickly. Not casually. Every line seemed to press against her chest, every word measured in memory before she crumpled the envelope and tucked it into her pocket.
"Riven," she murmured, almost to herself. Her jaw tightened. "He shouldn't exist here."
I nodded carefully. "And yet he does."
She turned to me then, gaze locking mine. "This changes things."
I realized then that "things" wasn't just about strategy, territory, or threats. It was personal. And I was standing in the middle of it.
"Who is he?" I asked cautiously.
She didn't answer. Not with words. Instead, she grabbed a set of knives from the wall and began cleaning them methodically, each movement precise, controlled. The silence between us thickened, a wall I hadn't learned to scale yet.
Later, in the hallway, I overheard fragments of conversation. Cager had known him. Trusted him. Lost him. Maybe even been betrayed by him. My pulse throbbed. I didn't fully understand why, but I felt it deep in my chest—a pull I hadn't felt before.
By the end of the night, I realized I had noticed everything: the way Cager stiffened when the name came up, the subtle tightening of her jaw, the flicker of memory in her eyes. And for the first time, I caught myself feeling something beyond curiosity, beyond professional awareness.
It unsettled me.
Not because I feared her. I didn't.
Because I was beginning to care.
And I knew, even if I couldn't admit it yet, that noticing her in this way her pain, her history, her careful control was dangerous.
Not for me, not yet. For both of us.
Cager's past wasn't just a shadow anymore. It was an approaching storm.
And I was standing directly in its path.