"You tried?" I let shadows rise, let them taste the fear finally returning to the room. "You tried to stop the woman who weighs half what Tooth does? Who paints flowers and worries about vegetables?"
Silence. Beautiful, terrified silence.
"No civilians enter this compound." The words crack. "No vegetables. No fixing what isn't broken. Tomorrow she arrives and finds closed doors. Clear?"
"Boss." Gray Streak again. Always Gray Streak, testing boundaries. "When's the last time you ate real food?"
The question hits between ribs. I can't remember. Yesterday was coffee and whatever energy comes from shadow magic eating your organs. Day before was the same. My stomach clenches at the smell of bay leaves, and I hate the betrayal of my own body.
"There's soup," he continues. "She made enough for everyone."
"Get out." The words come out quiet. Dangerous quiet. "All of you. Out."
They flee, taking their bowls and their impossible contentment. I'm alone with the evidence of infiltration. The pot still steams. My stomach cramps, hollow and angry.
I fill a bowl because information requires investigation. The soup burns my tongue. Tastes like chicken and vegetables and something I can't name. Care, maybe. If care had a flavor, it would taste like bay leaves and properly dissolved salt.
My body responds immediately. The tremor in my hand calms slightly. My stomach unknots. Muscles I didn't know were clenched start to relax.
I finish the bowl. Fill another. Eat like the starving thing I am while standing in my violated kitchen.
She did this. One woman with paint-stained fingers walked into my fortress and made soup. My killers ate from her hands like tamed dogs.
The second bowl empties. I consider another. Don't. Control requires limits, even when your body screams for more.
I take the stairs to my quarters, checking every shadow for signs of further infiltration. My room remains untouched—cold, dark, functional. At least some boundaries hold.
At my desk, tomorrow's contracts wait. Four executions to plan. Two territory disputes to settle. One merchant whoneeds to learn why payment schedules exist. But the words blur. When did I last sleep? Days blend together when you're dying by degrees.
My shadows pool around the chair, restless and wrong. They keep forming shapes—bowls, spoons, the outline of hands stirring soup. I force them flat. They resist.
Since when do my shadows resist?
"Find her." The command comes out rough. "Now."
They hesitate. Actually hesitate. I've killed men for less defiance than my own shadows are showing.
"She knows our location," I clarify through gritted teeth. "Surveillance. Security assessment. Go."
They flow out reluctantly, under the door, through cracks in the walls. I wait, fingers drumming against wood. The tremor's worse now, visible shaking I can't control.
They return carrying impressions. Her studio above the apothecary. Warm light. Paint and lavender. She's working—not on a commission but on lists. Names, food preferences, notes like "needs iron supplements" and "possible vitamin D deficiency."
My guild reduced to dietary requirements.
One shadow brings more detail. She's also painting. The canvas shows my face but wrong—tired, yes, but painted like exhaustion is something to be gentle with. Like someone should care that I haven't slept in days.
She sets down her brush, stretches. Paint in her hair where she's pushed it back. Moves to another list titled "Tomorrow's Assault on Guild Compound." Items include: proper bowls, cleaning supplies, vegetables, and—I lean forward—"hidden nutrients for stubborn shadow boss who probably lives on coffee and rage."
"My guild babies," she says to the empty room, adding another note. "So malnourished. Walking vitamin deficiencies with knives."
Guild babies. My killers are her guild babies.
"Come back," I order the shadows.
They don't.
I pull harder, shadow magic burning through my veins like acid. One shadow remains by her window, pooling there like a guardian. Like it's protecting her instead of spying.
