"All the grain, yes. As for the Obur, use your judgment. If they're just snacking on ambient misery, relocate them. If they're actively hunting refugees, kill them and send the bodies to the Light Court with a note about hospitality." I pause, then add with deliberate lightness, "Actually, that's not a bad idea regardless. Nothing says 'political protest' like a package of decomposing demon parts."
"You're going down there personally?"
"Someone needs to restore order, and I doubt harsh words and political negotiations will be effective with an angry mob. Also, I'm curious to see if I can intimidate people into good behavior through the sheer power of my overwhelming presence and devastatingly attractive bone structure."
But Emir isn't fooled by my tone. "This isn't about exercise. Or strategy."
I don't respond to that. Can't, really, because he's right and we both know it. This isn't about maintaining order or preventing political instability. This is about the woman with the child in her arms, about the desperate faces I can see even from up here. About the way my chest tightens when I hear children crying in fear.
When did I become someone who cares about such things?
The walkthrough the palace corridors to the main entrance feels longer than usual, my boots echoing against the onyx floors with each step. Servants scatter when they see me coming—not unusual, but tonight their haste seems more pronounced. Wordhas clearly spread about the riots, and they're all wondering what their volatile lord will do about it.
Smart of them to wonder. I'm not entirely sure myself.
The palace guards at the main gate straighten when I approach, their faces carefully neutral despite the orange glow visible over the lower districts and the distant sounds of violence carrying on the night air.
"My lord," the captain says, bowing slightly. "Do you require an escort?"
"No," I reply, gathering shadows around myself like armor. "But have a medical team standing by. And clear the throne room—we may be housing refugees in the palace tonight."
His eyebrows rise slightly, but he's too well-trained to question orders. "Yes, my lord."
I step out into the courtyard, where the smell of smoke is stronger and the sounds of chaos more immediate. From here, I can see the full scope of the destruction—entire blocks lit up with fires, crowds moving like angry ants through the streets below. It's worse than it looked from the balcony.
Time to make an entrance.
The shadows respond to my will, wrapping around me as I step into the space between moments. Reality blurs, darkness consumes everything, and then?—
I materialize directly in the central square where the chaos is thickest. Immediately, I'm assaulted by the full intensity of the scene—the acrid smell of smoke and unwashed bodies, the cacophony of angry voices and crying children, the press of desperate humanity with nowhere else to go.
A man swings a makeshift club at a merchant trying to protect his stall. A woman clutches a loaf of bread to her chest while three others try to tear it from her grasp. Children huddle against buildings, too small to fight but too hungry to leave. In the center of it all, a massive bonfire burns where someonehas dragged furniture and broken carts, the flames casting wild shadows that dance across terrified faces.
For a moment, I simply stand there, taking in the scope of the disaster. These aren't enemy combatants or political dissidents. These are just people—frightened, hungry, desperate people who have lost everything and see no way forward except through violence. There's also, I note with professional interest, a small pack of street-demons picking through the debris for shiny objects, a few displaced bog-spirits huddled near a broken fountain, and what appears to be a very confused wind-elemental that probably got swept up in the refugee exodus.
People I am responsible for. The thought should annoy me. Instead, it settles into my bones with an uncomfortable weight that I'm choosing to interpret as indigestion from breakfast.
"ENOUGH!"
My voice, amplified by shadow magic, cuts through the noise like a blade through silk. The riots don't stop immediately—desperation is stronger than fear, unfortunately—but people begin to notice me. The violence slows, becomes less frantic as heads turn in my direction.
What they see stops the chaos entirely.
I let the shadows expand outward from my feet, not as weapons but as a declaration. Darkness spreads across the square in rippling waves, and everywhere it touches, the temperature drops. Frost begins to form on the broken stone, on abandoned goods, on the very air itself. The bonfire sputters and dims, overwhelmed by the supernatural cold. Even the street-demons pause in their scavenging to watch with glowing eyes.
I am the Shadow Lord. I am the monster who conquered this court through blood and creative violence. I am power incarnate, and they are reminded of exactly what that means.
The silence that follows is complete. Even the wind-element stops its confused whirling.
"Well," I say and I survey the now-motionless crowd. "This is cozy. Nothing quite like a good riot to bring the community together. Though I have to say, your technique needs work. If you're going to burn down the merchant quarter, at least have the courtesy to loot it properly first. Wasted opportunities everywhere I look."
A few people shift uncomfortably, but no one speaks. Smart of them. The street-demons have wisely decided to relocate to a safer distance.
"I understand your anger," I continue, pacing slowly through the crowd as my shadows part before me like a living tide. "Your homes have been burned. Your families scattered. You've fled here seeking safety and found only overcrowding, rationing, and the occasional demon trying to eat your despair. Which, let me just say, is terrible hospitality on our part."
More movement now. A few nervous chuckles, faces that register surprise that the terrifying Shadow Lord is making jokes about their situation rather than executing them for property damage.
"I understand your frustration," I continue, stopping to examine a particularly impressive scorch mark on a nearby wall. "You're being asked to share limited resources with people you see as enemies. You're watching your children go hungry while strangers take bread from your stores. It's like being forced to invite your worst enemy's family to dinner during a famine. Reasonable people would riot."
