"They follow orders."
"Syl lost her training partner. Finn keeps asking about people who aren't answering. Ridge found Tomás and won't stop shaking." Voice cracks. "I taught Tomás to knead dough yesterday. His grandmother used to bake. Now—"
She stops. Breathes. Controls.
"When did you last eat? Your hands are still shaking."
She's right. Tremors from overuse, from healing, from my magic choosing her.
"Eat the bread. Then handle crisis. You're useless if you collapse."
She leaves. Lists my dead with more tenderness than I managed. My shadows writhe, reaching after her, and I hate them for it.
But I eat the bread. Because she's right. Because I need steady hands. Because it tastes like caring and I'm weak.
Grimm appears. "Evacuation ready. New location secured."
"Good. Start moving."
"The woman?"
"What about her?"
Shifts. "Ridge and Finn are packing her supplies. Syl found her a better transport crate. Tooth offered to carry her things."
They've adopted her while I wasn't looking.
"She comes."
"Boss—"
"She comes."
Evacuation is chaos pretending organization. People throwing belongings, arguing essentials. Someone's moving the weapons collection. Someone's saving the good chair. Olivia directs traffic.
"Medical in blue crates. Food in red. Yes, all of it."
Ridge hovers protective. When someone bumps her, he blocks. High shelf needs reaching, Finn's there. They've closed ranks without orders.
"Who put her in charge?" Tooth mutters.
"She did," Syl signs. Complete sentences now. "She knew their names. All seventeen."
I watch her organize my killers like they matter. They obey not from fear but because she makes sense and someone needs to care about the good knives.
"All of them," she tells Finn. "Every knife."
"These are throwing knives."
"Then we'll throw them at vegetables."
The new location is worse than expected. Abandoned warehouse, factory district. Our old compound looks luxury by comparison. No windows above ground. Cold that settles in bones. Smells like rust and decades of decay.
Everyone feels the downgrade. Standing lost in the main space, realizing we've gone from barely functional to actively dying. Water drips from ancient pipes. Floor's uneven, puddled with not-quite-water.
But Olivia's already moving. "That corner gets airflow—medical there. Kitchen near the old furnace for heat and cooking. Sleeping quarters upstairs where it's warmer."
Making hellholes livable. My guild watches with something like hope.
