Syl's blade stops an inch from my face. She tilts her head at me, asking a question with eyebrows alone.
"He's a child."
She signs something I don't understand. Ruvan translates flatly: "Child with a knife who tried to kill you."
"Tried and failed. Failing doesn't deserve death." I kneel beside the boy. He flinches back but there's nowhere to go. "Hi. That leg looks painful. Want me to fix it?"
"I—" He's shaking. From pain or fear or both. "You're the shadow witch. The one who corrupted the guild."
"I'm really not. I just teach people how to cook vegetables. Sometimes I heal things. Would you like me to heal your leg? It's definitely broken. Tibia and fibula from the look of it."
He stares at me. Which is fair. I'm being very confusing right now. But Syl's lowered her blade and Ruvan's shadows have stopped writhing quite so aggressively, so progress.
"Okay," the boy whispers.
I set the bones first – he screams, but that's normal – then let the healing light do its work. Quick and clean because we really don't have time for gentle. Around us the fighting continues but there's a bubble of stillness where everyone watches the shadow guild's pet civilian heal an enemy child.
"There. Don't put weight on it for at least a day." I stand, immediately dizzy. Too much healing too fast. "Someone should probably take him prisoner. Nicely. He's very young."
"I'm fifteen," the boy protests.
"That's basically twelve," I tell him. "Practically infant territory."
Grimm appears from nowhere – they all do that, it's very unsettling – blood on his knuckles but moving fine. His shirt's torn though. Right across the shoulder seam. That's going to be impossible to fix properly. Shoulder seams never sit right after you mend them.
"I've got him. Go."
Right. Going. We were doing that. Though someone should really check if anyone has dry socks. Wet feet in these drafty corridors is just asking for pneumonia.
The main hall is worse. So much worse. Water and shadows colliding everywhere. The water keeps trying to flood everything while shadows rise up to block it. The collision points make these interesting splash patterns on the ceiling. Someone's going to need a very tall ladder to clean those.
The beautiful wooden floor I spent an afternoon polishing is ruined. Not just wet – there are actual gouges where ice spears missed their targets. And the blood. Why is there always so much blood? It mixes with the water into these diluted pink streams that are definitely going to stain the grout between the stones. You need cold water for blood. Hot watersets the stain. These Tide Runners are using room temperature at best.
Bodies scattered everywhere. Some still moving, making those awful gurgling sounds that mean water in lungs. Not drowning – that's different. This is water magic forcing itself where water shouldn't go. Very rude of it.
"How many came?" I ask, then realize I probably don't want to know.
"Too many." Ruvan's scanning the space, calculating. "This was planned. Coordinated."
"To kill you?"
"To test me." His jaw tightens. "Someone wanted to see if the rumors were true."
"What rumors?"
He looks at me then. Really looks. Blood on my hands from healing. Paint still in my hair from this morning. His ruined shirt twisted in my grip.
"That I've gone soft."
"Oh." I process that. "Have you?"
"I just let you heal an enemy."
"That's not soft. That's practical. He's fifteen. Killing children is bad for morale." I think about it. "Also just bad generally."
Something crashes above us. Ruvan pushes me against the wall as debris falls where we were standing. His body cages mine, protective, and I can smell him – shadows and copper and that soap he uses. My brain helpfully notes this is inappropriate timing for attraction.
My body doesn't care.
