"They're very helpful weapons," she soothes, patting the darkness wrapped around her. "They helped carry shopping bags. Very supportive of cleaning supply acquisition."
"My shadows went shopping."
"Successfully! Though they prefer certain soap scents."
Preferences. My instruments of terror have soap preferences.
"We vote," Davis says suddenly. Everyone turns to look at him. He swallows but continues. "On the house. We vote."
"We don't vote." My voice drops to the register that makes grown men reconsider their life choices. "We're not a democracy. We're not a collective. I rule. You obey. That's the natural order."
"But the bathrooms—" Finn starts.
"Seven bathrooms," Syl signs emphatically. First time she's actively participated in group discussion in years. "Hot water. Privacy. Worth considering."
"We don't consider. We don't vote. We don't—"
Something snaps.
The shadows explode outward. Not the ones wrapped around her—those stay exactly where they are, the traitors—but every other shadow in the warehouse responds to my fury. They surge upward, forming blades, spears, reaching hands ready to remind everyone exactly who they're defying.
Temperature plummets. Frost forms on the salvaged wood charts. Several guild members step back, remembering what I am. What I can do. What I've done to maintain control.
"I am the Shadow King." Each word comes out carved from ice. "You follow or you die. There is no voting. Nodemocracy. No questioning. I decide, and you obey, or you join the seventeen we buried yesterday."
Silence. The kind that usually precedes begging.
Except.
She's walking toward me. Through the shadow blades. They part for her without my permission, creating a path.
"That's a lot of change to wake up to."
Her hand touches my arm. Just that. Just warmth through my sleeve, and every shadow I've summoned dissolves. Goes soft. Retreats.
"You've been in control for so long." Her voice is gentle. Understanding. "It's okay to feel unsteady when things shift."
She's not dismissing my authority. Not telling me I'm wrong. Just... acknowledging that absolute control is heavy when it starts to slip.
My shadows—all of them, even the ones supposedly obeying me—lean toward her. I'm losing a war I didn't know I was fighting, and she's winning it with understanding and strategic touches.
"Change doesn't mean chaos," she continues. "It just means adaptation. And you're very good at adapting. You've survived things that should have killed you."
"Through control."
"Through flexibility disguised as control." She smiles up at me. "Real strength is knowing when to bend."
Philosophy. From the woman wearing my shadows like accessories. My guild watches, seeing their terrifying leader talked down. I should kill someone to reestablish dominance. Should remind them why they fear me.
Instead, I look at the charts. Really look.
"Seven bathrooms."
"One for every six people," she confirms, brightening. "I did the math."
I study the room assignments. The defensive positions Gray Streak noted. The kitchen workflow Finn apparently contributed. These aren't just wish lists—they're practical, thought-out plans that consider both comfort and security.
Where's Joss in all this? My lieutenant should be here, cataloging this weakness, preparing contingencies. Her absence feels deliberate. Calculated. Like she's watching from somewhere else, letting this play out.
