"Market district, near the old courthouse." She's vibrating with excitement. "We could send Gray Streak first thing tomorrow—"
"No."
She blinks at the sharpness in my voice.
"I'll go. Tonight." I need this. Need to be the Shadow King making demands, not the man who just accepted bathroom schedules. "Arrange the viewing for morning. We move fast."
"Tonight? But they'll be closed—"
"They'll open." For me, they'll open. They'll do whatever I tell them because that's how my world works. How it needs to work, at least for this. "Home addresses aren't hard to find."
"Oh." She processes this. "You're going to visit the property agent. At home. In the evening."
"Problem?"
"No! No, just... maybe don't terrify them completely? We do need them functional enough to show us the property."
Even now, managing me. But I need this small violence, this reminder of what I am.
"They'll be functional. Motivated, even."
A week. Seven days from now, my guild could have individual rooms and hot water and dignity I've denied them for years in the name of control.
"I need to see these room assignments." Back to familiar ground. "Review the defensive positions. Calculate optimal guard rotations."
"Everything's in your corner. The one with good light." She's already moving. "I'll show you."
She's designated me a corner. With good light. For reading her chaotic charcoal charts.
The corner is indeed well-lit, relatively dry, and organized with terrifying efficiency. Charts arranged by category. Additional notes in margins. Even a salvaged crate to sit on.
"Bathroom schedule?" I pick up one board skeptically.
"Draft one. Based on morning versus evening preferences." She hovers nearby, my shadows creating a bridge between us. "But flexible! Very adaptable to changing needs."
I sit on the crate—when did my life include crates for furniture?—and actually read her bathroom schedule. It's comprehensive. She's considered shift patterns, morning preferences, even noted who takes longest (Grimm, apparently, which explains his off-peak scheduling).
"This is thorough."
"Organization prevents conflict." She's watching me read with poorly concealed anxiety. "And conflict over bathrooms seems especially counterproductive."
She's not wrong. Half our morning injuries come from disputes over washing facilities.
"These guard rotations." I move to Gray Streak's additions. "They include meal breaks."
"People need to eat. Hungry guards make mistakes."
When did she become practical? When did my chaos agent start thinking about sustainable security?
"Fine." The word tastes like surrender. "We view in the morning. If—and only if—security meets standards, we proceed."
"Really?" She bounces slightly. My shadows seem to brighten. "Oh, this is wonderful! Everyone will be so pleased. Private rooms, Ruvan. They've never had private rooms."
Neither have I, really. Always shared spaces, watching doors, sleeping light enough to wake at footsteps. The master suite diagram shows a door that locks. Windows that close. Space that's just mine.
"Go tell them." I need her to leave before I do something stupid like admit I want this too. "Before they invent more democracy."
She practically runs off, my shadows trailing behind her. I'm left with charts and the ghost of her enthusiasm and the realization that my empire isn't falling—it's evolving.
