More movement now. Nods of agreement, faces that register surprise that I understand their grievances.
"But let me be absolutely clear about something." I stop in the center of the square, directly beside the dying bonfire. "This—" I gesture around at the destruction, the broken windows, the scattered goods, the cowering street-demons "—accomplishes nothing except making your situation worse andproviding entertainment for the local supernatural predators. Who, incidentally, are having a wonderful time feeding off your misery while you destroy your own infrastructure."
"Easy words from someone with a warm palace and full pantries!" someone shouts from the back of the crowd. I can't see who, but I appreciate the courage it takes to challenge me publicly. Also, they're not wrong.
"You're absolutely right," I agree, which clearly wasn't the response they expected. "I have comfort and security that you lack. I also have a wine cellar that could feed a small army and servants whose only job is to make sure my bath water is the perfect temperature. That's the privilege of power, and I'm not going to insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise."
I raise my hand, and shadows begin to gather above us. But instead of forming weapons or threats, they start to coalesce into something else entirely. Something impossible and, frankly, showing off in a way that would make my father proud.
Shelter.
The shadows weave themselves into a complex latticework above our heads, creating a canopy that blocks out the night sky. But this isn't just darkness—it's solid, structural, a roof made from shadow magic that could protect hundreds of people from the elements. It's also absolutely exhausting and probably unnecessary, but sometimes you have to make a point with style.
Gasps echo through the crowd as they realize what they're seeing. Shadow constructs aren't just temporary manifestations—they're real, tangible creation magic that requires enormous amounts of power to maintain. The street-demons emerge from their hiding spots to stare in fascination. Even the wind-elemental seems impressed, judging by its excited swirling patterns.
I cannot bring back your homes," I say, sweat already beading on my forehead from the magical exertion. "I cannotundo the losses you've suffered, and I cannot promise that tomorrow will be better than today. But I can ensure you have shelter tonight. I can ensure you have food tomorrow. And I can ensure that while we fight this war, your children do not pay the price for adult conflicts."
The words feel strange in my mouth—too sincere, too earnest. When did I become someone who makes promises to refugees instead of threats to enemies?
I pause, then add with a grin that's probably more terrifying than reassuring, "Also, any Obur, shadow-wraiths, or other supernatural parasites who mistake your suffering for an all-you-can-eat buffet will discover that I take great personal offense to creatures who don't pay taxes trying to collect onmycitizens' despair. The dungeons have vacancies. The afterlife has more."
The shadow canopy expands, flowing outward from the square to cover the surrounding streets. Everywhere it touches, the space beneath becomes warm and dry, protected from wind and weather. More gasps, then cautious murmurs of amazement. I notice a few shadow-sprites—tiny creatures that usually hide in the palace walls—emerging to help reinforce the construct. Their gossamer forms weave through the shadows, strengthening the magical architecture with their instinctive understanding of darkness.
This is draining me faster than I expected. The construction of solid shadow forms requires a constant flow of magical energy, and supporting this much coverage is like trying to hold up a mountain with my bare hands. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I can feel my legs beginning to shake with the effort. But I can't stop now. Not when they're finally looking at me with something other than fear.
"The emergency food stores will be opened within the hour," I announce, fighting to keep the strain out of my voice. "Everyperson in this square will receive a meal tonight and provisions for tomorrow. The children will be housed in the palace annexes where they'll be warm and safe and fed until we can establish proper temporary housing."
"And what do you want in return?" a woman calls out, her voice sharp with suspicion. She's holding a young boy against her hip, his face streaked with tears and soot. "Nothing comes free from shadow lords."
I look directly at her, noting the protective way she cradles her child, the fierce determination in her eyes despite her obvious exhaustion. "I want you to stay alive," I say simply. "I want your children to grow up in a realm that's worth inheriting. I want the Light Court to discover that destroying our border villages only made us stronger, more united." I pause, then add with dark amusement, "And I want them to learn that the Shadow Court protects its own. All of its own. Whether you were born here, fled here seeking safety, or are a displaced bog-spirit who just needs somewhere to puddle until the war ends."
The bog-spirits by the fountain make grateful gurgling sounds.
The shadow canopy shudders as my control wavers. Maintaining this much construction is pushing me past my limits, but I force more power into the construct, extending it further to cover the worst of the refugee camps. The physical cost is becoming impossible to hide—my hands shake, my vision blurs at the edges, and I can taste copper in my mouth.
Someone in the crowd begins to clap. Then another. Within moments, the applause spreads through the square—not enthusiastic, not worshipful, but respectful. Grateful. The sound of people who have been given hope when they expected only more despair.
It's a sound I've never heard directed at me before. And it does something dangerous to the cold emptiness that's lived inmy chest for four months. It makes me remember what it felt like to be looked at with something other than fear or hatred.
The shadow canopy holds for another minute before I'm forced to let it dissolve, the magical drain becoming too much to sustain. I stagger slightly as the construct collapses, and Emir moves closer, ready to catch me if I fall. The sudden absence of that massive magical working leaves me feeling empty, drained in ways that will take days to recover from.
But in that minute, I catch a flicker of movement in one of the palace windows high above us. A familiar silhouette framed against the warm light.
Nesilhan.
She's watching from her chambers, and even at this distance, I can see the way she's leaning forward, hands pressed against the glass. Watching me protect her people—because despite everything, they are her people too, Light Court refugees who fled to the Shadow Court seeking sanctuary.
For just a moment, something flickers across her face. Something that might be surprise. Or recognition. Or the faintest echo of respect.
Then another shadow moves beside her at the window. Taller, broader, with the unmistakable grace of someone who's never had to fight for anything in his life.
Yasar.
Always there. Always watching. Always ready to take credit for any moment of connection between Nesilhan and me.
The sight of him kills whatever warmth I'd felt from the crowd's approval. Because I know exactly what he's doing up there—poisoning every gesture I make, every attempt at redemption, every small step toward something that might resemble healing between my wife and me.
As Emir moves away to coordinate the relief efforts, I find myself looking up at that palace window again. But now it'sempty. Both figures gone, vanished back into whatever private conversation they were having about my public display of compassion.
