How long have I been out?
How long has he been sitting there, waiting, watching over me while his own reserves depleted?
I don't have answers, but the questions add weight to emotions already complicated by Gabriel's farewell and the uncertainty of everything that awaits.
Slowly, carefully, I begin to sit up.
The motion requires more effort than it should—muscles protesting the demand after however long they've been dormant, equilibrium uncertain as my inner ear tries to remember which direction is up. Dizziness washes through me in waves, making the room swim briefly before settling back into focus.
Easy.
Don't rush.
The last thing you need is another fainting spell.
I wait for the vertigo to pass, breathing steadily, giving my body time to remember how to function. The bioluminescencepulses around me with rhythm that almost matches my heartbeat, and I wonder if the pod is somehow synchronizing with my vitals—responding to my recovery with adjustments I can't consciously detect.
When the dizziness fades to manageable levels, I turn my attention back to Cassius.
And that's when I notice them.
His shadow tendrils.
They extend from his form like living extensions of his will, dark appendages that usually writhe with constant motion, tracking threats and mapping environments and responding to his emotional state with sensitivity that borders on telepathic. But now, in his sleep, they've... settled. Draped across surfaces with something approaching relaxation, their usual aggressive vigilance replaced by something almost peaceful.
Almost.
Because as I watch, the tendril ends begin to stir.
The motion is gradual at first—tiny shifts that could be dismissed as simple air currents, if shadow tendrils responded to something as mundane as air. But the movements increase in complexity, inawareness, and I realize with something between amusement and fascination that they'rewaking up.
Independently of Cassius himself.
One tendril's tip lifts from where it was resting against the pod's edge, swaying slightly as if testing the environment. Another joins it moments later, the two engaging in what looks remarkably like silent communication—nudges and gestures that convey meaning I can't quite translate.
Then one of them notices me.
The tendril goes absolutely still for a fraction of a second before its tip swivels toward my face with the particular intensity of someone who has just realized something important. It stares—if tendrils can be said to stare—with focus that makes me want to laugh despite the circumstances.
Then it nudges its companions.
Wake up. She's awake. WAKE UP.
The other tendrils respond with their own version of alertness, swaying in what I can only interpret as relief. They reach toward me with obvious intent—checking, confirming, reassuring themselves that I'm actually conscious and not simply shifting in my sleep.
I lift a finger to my lips.
Shh.
The gesture is instinctive, the meaning clear enough that even shadow extensions seem to understand. The tendrils pause mid-motion, tips tilting in what might be confusion, and I point carefully toward Cassius's sleeping form.
He's still asleep. Don't wake him.
The tendrils follow my gesture, then seem to confer with each other in their wordless way. When they turn back to me, there's something almostguiltyin their posture—as if they've realized they were about to ruin something by alerting their host to my awakened state.
They nod.
Actually nod.
