Aiden noticed it first because it didn't feel like anything.
No surge.
No pressure.
No whisper of power tugging at his awareness.
Just… absence.
Inkaris walked ahead of them through the undercity corridor, coat immaculate, stride unhurried. He looked exactly as he always did—composed, distant, mildly disinterested in the world around him.
And yet Aiden's chest felt tight.
He pressed a hand briefly to his sternum, frowning.
"Do you feel that?" he asked quietly.
Liora glanced over. "Feel what?"
Aiden hesitated. He searched for the words and came up empty. "I don't know. Like… something's wrong. But not wrong in a way I can point at."
Liora studied him for a moment, then shook her head. "I don't feel anything strange."
Aiden nodded, unsettled.
That made it worse.
---
Seris felt it differently.
She didn't sense absence. She noticed control.
Inkaris didn't slow when the path narrowed. He didn't favor one side when the ground dipped unevenly. His breathing never changed, never caught, never betrayed effort.
Which was precisely the problem.
Seris had spent years watching mages hide exhaustion behind discipline and soldiers mask injury behind posture. She knew what it looked like when someone refused to acknowledge pain—not because they couldn't feel it, but because they had decided no one else was allowed to see it.
Inkaris was too precise.
Too careful.
She watched the way his hand tightened briefly when he thought no one was looking. The fraction of a second longer it took him to settle after stopping. The way he leaned against the stone wall—not for support, but for timing.
She didn't say anything.
Not yet.
---
They reached a small junction where the tunnels widened into a resting alcove. Inkaris stopped and turned to face them.
"We'll pause here," he said calmly. "The city's attention is… unfocused at the moment. It's prudent to let it settle."
Aiden nodded, grateful for the excuse to sit. He leaned back against the wall, eyes closing briefly.
That was when it hit him.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Grief.
It washed over him without warning, sharp enough that his breath caught. Images flashed through his mind—things he hadn't seen, emotions he hadn't earned.
Loss.
Regret.
A hollow space where someone should have been.
Aiden sucked in a breath, eyes snapping open.
Inkaris stood across from him, gaze fixed somewhere past Aiden's shoulder.
Aiden stared.
For just a moment—only a moment—Inkaris looked… tired.
Not physically.
Existentially.
Then the expression vanished.
Aiden swallowed. "Inkaris?"
Inkaris' eyes flicked to him. "Yes?"
"You're… fine, right?"
The answer came too quickly.
"Of course."
Aiden frowned. His instincts—new, unreliable, half-formed—twisted uncomfortably.
"You don't have to be," he said before he could stop himself.
The silence that followed was immediate and complete.
Liora looked between them, confused.
Seris held very still.
Inkaris studied Aiden with something unreadable in his gaze.
"That's an interesting thing to say," he replied at last. "Why would you think otherwise?"
Aiden struggled. "I don't know. I just—every time something goes wrong, it feels like it… echoes. Like someone else is carrying it."
Inkaris' expression didn't change.
But Seris saw the way his shoulders squared.
Defensive.
---
Later, when Liora wandered a short distance away to check the passage ahead, Seris spoke.
Quietly.
"You're injured."
Inkaris didn't look at her. "No."
She didn't press immediately. She folded her arms, leaning against the stone opposite him.
"Then you're paying for something," she said.
That got his attention.
He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to acknowledge the statement.
"You assume much."
"I observe," Seris corrected. "And you're not as invisible as you think."
Inkaris considered her for a moment. Then he gave a small, polite smile.
"Observation is dangerous," he said. "It leads to conclusions."
"And conclusions lead to action," Seris replied. "Which is my job."
The smile faded.
"I will not endanger the group," Inkaris said calmly.
"That's not what I asked."
He was silent.
Seris exhaled slowly. "You don't owe us an explanation," she said. "But don't insult us by pretending nothing's wrong."
Inkaris looked away.
For a heartbeat, Seris thought he might actually answer.
Instead, he said, "If you are looking for reassurance, you will not find it in honesty."
She studied his profile. "That wasn't reassurance. That was avoidance."
His lips curved faintly. "You're learning."
---
Aiden watched them from where he sat, unable to hear the words but keenly aware of the tension.
He hated this feeling.
Not fear.
Helplessness.
He hugged his knees to his chest, wings tucked tightly behind him—still strange, still too real.
People were getting hurt.
People were paying prices.
And he didn't even know what currency was being used.
---
When they moved again, Inkaris led the way as if nothing had happened.
Perfect posture.
Measured pace.
Impenetrable calm.
But now Aiden felt it clearly.
The absence wasn't emptiness.
It was something missing because it had been given away.
And Seris knew it too.
She walked just a little closer to Inkaris than before—not protectively, not confrontationally.
Present.
Inkaris did not comment on it.
But for the first time since they had met, he did not move away.
---
Above them, unseen and uninterested in intervening, the universe continued to turn.
Costs accumulated.
Balances shifted.
And somewhere in the quiet spaces between action and consequence, something was being paid for that no one had agreed to discuss.
Not yet.
---