"Your boots have holes." The words fall out because apparently that's what we're discussing. Not the six years of grief. Not the nights I talked to his grave that wasn't even his grave. Just the holes in his boots that someone really should fix.
"That's what you—" He takes a step forward and several shadow blades materialize at his throat. Right. Family reunion at shadow-sword point. Very normal. Very manageable.
The shadows around me go cold. Not regular cold—angry cold. They're rising off my shoulders, reaching toward him.
"Oh no, stop that." I push at them like they're misbehaving cats. "He's not—well, he IS terrible but not stabbing terrible—please don't murder my brother."
The shadows coil tighter, clearly disagreeing. One keeps reaching forward.
"Down. Bad shadows. We don't stab family members." I'm literally batting at concentrated darkness while my not-dead brother watches. "Even family members who pretended to be dead for six years. Even then."
"You can control them?" Arthur's voice cracks slightly. He's staring at the shadows like they might eat him, which honestly, they look ready to try.
"Control is a very generous word for what's happening here." Another shadow tendril snakes toward him. I grab it—actually grab it, like it's rope instead of whatever shadows are made of. "They're having feelings. Strong ones."
Ruvan hasn't moved since we reached the gates. Standing perfectly still in that way that means he's deciding exactly how to kill someone and in what order.
"Inside," he says. One word. The shadows immediately shift, pushing at my lower back.
"I can walk on my own—" But they're nudging harder, actually lifting my feet slightly off the ground. The lift reminds me of when Arthur used to pick me up when I was eight and couldn't reach the good apples. He'd hold me up and—no. Not thinking about that now. "This is unnecessary. He's my brother."
"Your dead brother," Ruvan says flatly. "Who leads the guild that attacked us yesterday."
Oh. Right. That's... that's actually quite bad, isn't it?
"We need to discuss this." Arthur's trying to look authoritative, which is hard when you're surrounded by Shadow Guild members doing that synchronized shadow-weapon thing. Do they practice that? They must practice. "The Radiant Court—"
"Inside," Ruvan repeats. The shadows push harder, one actually picking up my left foot and moving it forward for me.
"Stop helping me walk, I know how legs work." I turn back to Arthur. "You're coming to dinner."
Everyone stops. The shadow weapons pause mid-threat. Even my helpful walking shadows seem confused. Someone in the back actually coughs from surprise.
"Dinner?" Arthur blinks at me.
"Yes. Dinner. The meal that happens in the evening. You remember those, right? Or did dying make you forget how eating works?" My voice is getting that high pitch it does when I'm upset but I keep walking. "We have a dining room now. With actual chairs. And plates that match. Well, mostly match. Some have chips but—"
"Livvy, we can't—"
"You've been dead for six years. You're staying for dinner."
The walk to the house blurs. What if we don't have enough food? Does the dining room smell weird? Old houses always smell weird—
The dining room definitely smells like lemon oil and dust. Someone's lighting candles—when did that happen? The table's too long for any reasonable dinner party, but then again, we're not reasonable people. Behind me, everyone's filing in with that awkward shuffle of enemies trying to figure out seating arrangements. Someone's sword clanks against a chair.
"Tide Runners on that side." I point without looking. "Shadow Guild over there. Nobody sits next to anyone they've recently tried to kill."
"That eliminates most of the seating options," Gray Streak mutters.
"Then get creative with your not-murdering-each-other placement." I'm already heading to the kitchen because standing still means thinking and thinking means crying. "Andnobody kills anyone while I'm cooking. I'll know. The shadows tell me things now."
The kitchen's beautiful and functional and I have no idea what I'm doing. My hands are shaking. There's a chicken in the cold storage. Vegetables that someone bought. Potatoes with eyes—need to cut those out, potato eyes are poisonous. Did Arthur know that? He used to eat them anyway, said the poison built character—
The shadows hover, reaching toward the knife I'm using, another attempting to turn on the oven but doesn't understand knobs.
"You turn it, you don't push—no, that's too high, we're roasting not cremating." They adjust, somewhat. "Better. Thank you."
I check the sitting room while the pan heats. Everyone's staring at walls. Gray Streak's cleaning his already clean blade. One of the Tide Runners—young, nervous, definitely underfed—keeps glancing at the door. Someone's stomach growls. Nobody acknowledges it.
