"A soup program." His voice has gone flat. "For my guild of assassins and thieves."
"Everyone needs soup."
He makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be a death rattle. Hard to tell with him.
"Go home," he finally says. "Lock your doors. Try not to heal anyone else without permission. And stop feeding my surveillance team."
"I make no promises about the last part."
His shadows start to gather, preparing to swallow him again. But he pauses, looking back.
"The healing. How long have you—"
"Always." The admission tastes like fear. "But I'm very careful. Usually. When people aren't bleeding on me."
Something flickers across his face. Understanding, maybe. Or calculation. With him, they might be the same thing.
Then he's gone, swallowed by shadows. I'm alone in an alley that definitely had more people in it five minutes ago.
I walk home on shaking legs. Have to stop twice to rest, leaning against shop windows. My shadows follow, less subtlenow. More protective. The young one actually walks beside me for the last block, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly.
"Thank you," I tell him as I reach my door. My voice sounds thin, used up.
He shifts, uncomfortable. "Boss's orders."
"Still. Thank you." I dig in my basket with trembling fingers. "Last of the apple slices. Only slightly more brown than before."
He takes them with a mumbled thanks and disappears into the evening shadows.
Inside, I collapse into my chair, not even bothering to remove my corset first. Everything hurts. My bones feel hollow, like the magic took more than it should have. I sit there until the shaking stops. Until I can think past the sound of bodies hitting stone.
River Guild. Territory disputes. My magic going defensive. Him, saving me. Me, healing him without permission.
His face when the golden light touched him. Like I'd offered him something impossible.
He must be Shadow Guild - has to be, with that kind of magic. No registered magic user would show up like that, walking through shadows like breathing. The Registration Bureau tracks shadow users obsessively. They'd never let one powerful enough to dissolve into darkness walk free. Which means he's underground, unregistered, probably high up given how the others defer to him.
Shadow Guild. The name alone used to make me check my locks twice. Now I'm baking for them.
"This is getting complicated," I tell my painting supplies.
They don't argue.
Eventually, when my hands stop shaking enough to hold a knife, I start planning tomorrow's baking. Maybe somethingwith protein. These shadow types need proper nutrition if they're going to be lurking full-time. Meat pies? Too ambitious. Sandwiches? Too ordinary.
Soup. Definitely soup. With vegetables cut small and meat cooked tender. The kind of soup that fixes things.
My magic hums agreement, still running warm from the healing. From touching him. From fixing old wounds he'd been carrying too long.
"Just soup," I tell myself firmly. "Not getting involved. Just providing meals for the nice people stalking me. Perfectly reasonable."
Outside my window, shadows gather like protective walls. My new reality, apparently. Being watched by people who think banana bread might be poisoned but eat it anyway.
I should be terrified. I am terrified. My hands start shaking again when I think about those wet sounds in the alley.
But I'm mentally calculating how many potatoes I'll need for tomorrow's soup.
Maybe I'm the one who needs healing. The mental kind. The kind that explains why I want to feed people who follow me through dark alleys.
