Varang had never been subtle about disinterest.

Quaritch noticed it immediately—the way her attention slid past him without friction, the absence of challenge in her gaze, the complete lack of curiosity. He was a problem to be managed at best, a tool to be placed where it did the least damage. Nothing more.

Her sister, however—

That was different.

Varang saw it the way she saw everything: quickly, accurately, without sentiment. The way Quaritch’s focus shifted when her sister entered a space. The way irritation softened into something sharper, more attentive. The way her sister met him with equal force, unafraid, unimpressed, interested in all the ways Varang was not.

So Varang did what leaders did.

She intervened.

Not with scheming or malice, but with blunt redirection. She placed Quaritch beside her sister during councils. Assigned them to the same patrols. Stepped back just enough to make it obvious where his attention should land—anywhere but on her.

“You are not my concern,” her actions said plainly. “But she might be.”

There was no jealousy in it. No sacrifice. Varang did not give up what she never wanted. If anything, it was efficient—removing an unwanted variable while strengthening bonds that actually mattered.

If Quaritch was going to attach himself to this clan, Varang preferred it be to someone who might actually care.

And if her sister chose to entertain him?

That was her choice.

Varang had already made hers.