"The eggs will get cold," I point out. "Cold eggs are tragic. Anyone?"
"Aldwin," one finally mutters. Former Copper Hands, from the look of his defensive posture. "I do—did—warehouse security."
"Excellent! Aldwin does warehouse security. Who's next?"
It's painful, extracting names from suspicious people, but eventually everyone mumbles their name and function. We have two knife specialists (concerning), a poison expert named Vesper (very concerning), someone called Harrow who handles explosives (extremely concerning), and one person named Corvus who just says "logistics" and refuses to elaborate (mysteriously concerning).
"See? Now we're all acquainted." I pass the bacon platter to the person who definitely tried to knife Finn last week. "More toast, anyone?"
That's when it happens.
A woman I don't recognize—former Copper Hands, definitely, from the way she holds herself apart—stands abruptly. Her chair screeches against the floor.
"This is sick." Her voice shakes with rage. "You're sitting here serving breakfast like you didn't get half my guild killed last night."
"I didn't—"
"You did." She's moving now, around the table, and several people are standing but not fast enough. "If you hadn't—if the Shadow King hadn't gone soft for some artist—"
She lunges. I see the knife—where did she even hide that?—and my brain helpfully notes it needs sharpening while my body tries to remember how dodging works. The blade catchesmy arm, slicing through my sleeve and skin beneath. Hot pain blooms immediately.
Then everything happens very fast.
Ridge is there, shadows slamming the woman into the wall hard enough to crack plaster. The knife clatters away. My shadows—the ones that live with me now—go arctic cold and race toward the study. Someone's shouting. Someone else is trying to stop the bleeding with a napkin, which seems inadequate.
"Nobody move." Ridge's voice has gone flat and dangerous. His shadows pin the woman. "Nobody fucking move."
But she's still struggling, still spitting fury. "She ruined everything! Felix is broken, half the guild's dead, and she's serving eggs like—"
Ruvan appears in the doorway.
Not walks. Appears. One second empty doorway, next second him, blanket gone, clothes rumpled, hair a disaster, death in his eyes. His shadows explode outward, filling the room with arctic darkness.
He takes in the scene—me bleeding, her pinned, everyone frozen—in one sweep.
Then he moves.
No words. No threats. Just motion so fast I barely track it. One moment she's against the wall, the next she's in his grip, his hand around her throat, her feet off the ground.
"You touched her." His voice comes out wrong. All shadow and threat. "You made her bleed."
The woman's eyes go wide. She claws at his hand, but his shadows are already moving. Not the slow, threatening tendrils I'm used to. These are sharp, purposeful, final.
"Wait—" someone starts.
The shadows go through her throat. Not around. Through. The sound is wet and specific and terrible. Blood sprays across the nice wallpaper we just cleaned yesterday. Her body drops when he releases it, hitting the floor with finality.
Complete silence except for my blood dripping on the floor. Plop. Plop. Plop.
Ruvan turns to me, and his eyes are still that terrible darkness but there's something else there too. His shadows reach for me, gentle now, warm, wrapping around my injured arm.
"You're hurt." He's in front of me suddenly, hands careful on my arm. There's blood on his fingers—hers, not mine—and his hair's sticking up on one side from sleeping on his desk.
"It's not deep." My voice comes out steadier than expected. "Probably needs stitches though. Several. Do we have a needle? We should buy needles."
He's staring at me. Everyone's staring at me. I can feel the weight of forty-something eyes while blood seeps through my fingers.
"You killed her," someone whispers. Former Copper Hands, from the accent.
