The scream stops me mid-step.
Not a normal scream. This is the kind that means someone's really dying, not just being dramatic about it. My feet are moving before I remember I'm supposed to be afraid of these people. Running toward the sound because that's what you do when someone's hurt, even if they're probably a criminal. My skirts catch on everything.
Around the corner. Down an alley I didn't explore yesterday. A door—old, forgotten, probably a servant's entrance from when this was something other than a criminal compound. It's been forced open from the inside, hanging crooked on bent hinges.
Another scream. Weaker. Wet.
I push through the door into darkness that smells like copper and bile and something worse. My eyes adjust slowly, but I can hear breathing. Labored. Wrong.
He's on his knees in something wet and black. Not blood—blood I know. This is thicker, darker. Steaming against the stones. His beautiful coat is ruined, which seems like the wrongthing to notice but it was such nice wool. Probably expensive. Someone else's blood is everywhere—all over his hands, his shirt, splattered across his face. Has to be someone else's because he's not bleeding, he's shaking.
Full body convulsions that slam him into walls, into the floor. That can't be good for his knees. Stone floors are so hard. His back bends at angles that backs shouldn't bend and more black stuff pours from his mouth, his nose. Is he cold? He must be cold. The floor's probably freezing.
"Oh no. No, no, no." I drop beside him, knees landing right in the black puddle. It's warm. Why is it warm? That can't be healthy. "What did you—why didn't you—do you not own a bed? Is that the problem? Have you been sleeping on floors? Your knees must be bruised. Look at them. All scraped from the stone."
His eyes roll back. All white. The shaking gets worse. Should I hold his head? I should hold his head. Or not? What if that makes it worse? I don't know seizure protocol. Why don't I know seizure protocol? And he's going to catch cold. This floor is freezing. Damp too. When's the last time anyone mopped properly?
My magic doesn't ask permission. It just pours out of me in big warm waves. Probably too much but when someone's dying in front of you, you don't measure, you just pour.
I get his head in my lap somehow. He's heavy—all muscle and bad decisions—but I manage. His blood—definitely someone else's blood—soaks through my skirt immediately. My good skirt. The blue one without paint stains. Well, it has stains now. Cold water. I'll need cold water for the blood. Hot water sets stains. Mother taught me that.
"Shh, you're alright. You're fine. Just a bit of shadow poisoning. Probably a lot of shadow poisoning actually. When's the last time you took a break? Do shadow users get vacationdays? They should get vacation days." My hands smooth his hair back from his face. It's wet with sweat and probably other things. He needs a bath. And a haircut. The back's getting shaggy. Does he own shampoo? Good shampoo? Not the terrible kind that strips all the oils out. "Why do you all insist on dying? Is it a guild requirement? Is there paperwork involved? Are your socks wet? They look wet. Wet socks are how you catch pneumonia."
My magic pours into him, finding all sorts of problems. Old wounds that healed wrong. Organs that are basically giving up. Everything's poisoned by shadow magic. How is he even walking around? Does he not feel pain? He must feel pain. Everyone feels pain. Has he been ignoring it?
The convulsions slow. The black bile stops flowing. Under my hands, his body starts remembering how to be human instead of a shadow repository.
"That's it. Just breathe. Normal breathing, not the dramatic dying kind." I keep smoothing his hair. He has a scar on his scalp. Old. Probably fell off something as a child. Did his mother fuss over him? Does he have a mother? Do shadow users have mothers? Everyone has mothers. "In and out. Very simple. Even you can manage it."
His shadows curl around us. Not threatening—more like curious cats. They wrap around my arms, which should probably worry me but they're almost warm. Strange. I thought shadows would be cold.
"Ruvan." He mumbles it into my lap. Still mostly unconscious. "My name. 'S Ruvan."
"That's nice. Very dramatic. Suits you." I'm checking his pockets for anything that might explain all this blood. Wallet—nice leather, probably expensive. Some coins. A folded paper that looks official. No handkerchief though. What kind ofperson doesn't carry a handkerchief? "Though Night Manager had grown on me. It was descriptive."
The paper has writing. Lots of writing. His name again—Ruvan Valdris. Master of Shadows, which sounds like a job title someone made up to sound important. Guild Registration (Exempt by Shadow Statute), whatever that means. And then, in smaller letters like someone forgot to mention it: Shadow King of Vespera.
"Oh." I look down at him. Still shaking but normal shaking now. Like he's cold, not dying. "Well, that explains the dramatic entrances."
The Shadow King is in my lap, covered in someone else's blood, barely conscious from shadow poisoning I just healed.
When was the last time he slept in an actual bed? With proper pillows? Not just collapsed somewhere between murders?
His eyes flutter open. Dark. Confused. Struggling to focus on my face.
"Did you just..." His voice sounds raw. "Did you heal me?"
"Someone had to. You were being very dramatic about the whole thing." I help him sit up slowly. He sways. I steady him with one hand on his chest. His heart's racing but strong. Good. "Also, you're covered in blood. Is any of it yours?"
He looks down at himself like he's just noticing. "No."
"Good. Then we can deal with that later." I study his face. Still too pale, but the black veins are fading. "Can you stand? We need to get you inside before you collapse again."
"I don't collapse."
"You were literally convulsing in a puddle of your own bile five minutes ago."
"That was... different."
