My shadows spike. But Olivia's already stepping back, hands clasped, playing obedient civilian. She passes close—lavender and blood and burnt sugar healing magic. My body remembers exactly how she felt twenty minutes before people started dying.
"Leave us."
She nods, starts to go, pauses. Quiet: "They'll be more useful alive. Your hands are shaking. There's bread in your office."
Her breath ghosts my neck. Every shadow lurches toward her.
Then she's gone, leaving confused prisoners who expected bleeding, not feeding. But they're conscious. Alert. Ready for proper terror.
"Now," I tell Harwick, ignoring my shadows trying to follow her. "Let's discuss who sent you."
Standard interrogation after that. Threats, necessary pain, information extracted. But I keep thinking about her tremor. The careful distance. How she protected my authority while protecting them.
"Corvus is coming," Gray Streak appears an hour later. "Says he found something. About the leak."
The leak. Someone sold us out. Someone I trust.
"Watch them," I tell Joss. Her smile says she's been watching me. Watching my shadows betray me every time Olivia's mentioned.
Corvus waits in the ruined kitchen. Water damage revealed old bloodstains in the beams. This building's soaked in death.
"Talk."
"Found communication logs. Hidden sub-basement. Someone's been feeding information for weeks."
"Who?"
"Can't say certain. But." Pause. "Writing looks like Aldric's."
Aldric. Eight years with us. Just healed by Olivia. Thanked her with tears. Learning to make bread.
"Sure?"
"Seventy percent. Could be copied. Could be planted." Shifts. "Two hours left on the deadline."
I know. Feel every minute. Need decisions. Execute on suspicion? Wait while the real traitor escapes?
"Bring him. Quietly."
He disappears. I stand in my ruined kitchen where yesterday she taught killers to dice vegetables. They smiled. I ate soup and felt human for twenty minutes.
There's bread on the counter. Still warm. She wasn't lying. My shadows curl around it.
"You look ready to murder someone."
Her voice behind me. Didn't hear approach. Getting sloppy. Or my shadows are happy and didn't warn me.
"That's my default expression."
"No, your default is 'controlled menace.' This is 'uncontrolled fury.'" She checks something in a salvaged pot. Hip brushes my arm. We freeze. "Are we evacuating? People are anxious."
"Within the hour."
"Someone should coordinate." She pulls out a list. Of course she has lists. "I've catalogued surviving medical supplies. We'll need bandages. Infection treatment—"
"Not now."
"When?" She faces me. Alone, so masks drop. Red-rimmed eyes. She's been crying. "Your people are scared. Half think you'll execute them for failing. The other half don't know what to think."
