It was just a cane, why did no one just push past it? Honestly this was my thought during every episode of Shadow and Bone.
Blockade
Kaz Brekker does not raise his voice.
That’s part of the problem.
The office is too small for the amount of pride currently crammed into it.
You’re done.
“Fine,” you snap, throwing your hands up. “Then do it your way. Again.”
You turn toward the door.
Tap.
The sound is soft. Wood against frame. But it lands like a gunshot.
His cane slides neatly across the doorway before you can reach it. Not touching you. Never touching you. Just there. A barrier drawn with quiet precision.
You stop.
You stare at it.
Then at him.
Kaz stands to the side, gloved hand holding lightly on the polished crow's head handle. Expression unreadable. Dark eyes sharp as broken glass.
You mutter, exasperated, “Why does that work?”
He tilts his head slightly. “Because you haven’t decided to push it away.”
The infuriating thing? He’s right.
The cane is not heavy. Not threatening. It’s just… him. A line in the sand. And some stubborn part of you refuses to cross it.
You turn back to him slowly.
“This isn’t about strategy,” you press. “This is about you refusing to trust anyone else to handle it.”
“I trust you,” he says calmly.
You bark a humorless laugh. “You don’t trust anyone. You calculate them.”
A flicker. Barely there. You’ve hit something real.
“If I didn’t trust you,” he says evenly, “you wouldn’t be here.”
“That’s not trust. That’s utility.”
“And you don’t enjoy being useful?”
The words are precise. Sharp.
You step closer despite yourself. “I enjoy being more than a piece on your board.”
Silence stretches. Heavy. Honest.
His gaze drops for a fraction of a second—not backing down but.... calculating something new.
“You think I don’t know the difference?” he asks quietly.
There it is. Not volume. Not anger.
Soft, wrapped in barbed wire.
You shake your head, frustrated beyond words. “One of these days,” you say, softer now but firm, “that’s not gonna work anymore.”
His brow arches slightly. “What won’t?”
You gesture at the cane. The blocking. The quiet command.
“This.”
A pause.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifts his weight and lowers the cane from the doorway.
The path is clear.
“You’re still here,” he observes.
You hate that he’s right again.
“Don’t push it,” you mutter.
A ghost of a smirk touches his mouth. Not victory. Not quite.
“Noted.”
The argument doesn’t end cleanly. It never does with Kaz. It evolves. It becomes negotiation instead of battle. You don’t win. He doesn’t either.
But when you leave the office this time, the cane doesn’t stop you.
And somewhere in that small, quiet change, the balance shifts—just enough.
Kaz Brekker builds his power on control. The interesting thing about control is that it only works as long as people agree to it. The day you truly step over that cane will be the day he has to choose between strategy… and you.
That’s the sort of choice even Dirtyhands can’t calculate perfectly.
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