She opened her mouth, then closed it, apparently trying to remember.
"I'll take that as confirmation." He moved toward the door. "You need food."
She stared at him. "Are you asking me to dinner?"
"I'm stating that you require sustenance, and we might as well discuss our arrangement while you eat." He opened the door, shadows moving ahead into the corridor. "Unless you prefer to eat alone in your chambers."
"No," she said quickly, following him. "Dining together is practical."
His jaw clenched. His shadows reached for her before he pulled them back.
"Practical," he repeated.
XVIII.
DANTE
The private dining chamber was smaller than the formal hall where court meals were served, intimate in a way that formal spaces never achieved. The table was carved from walnut, its legs ending in elegant clawed feet that might have been decorative. Or might have been actual talons, preserved and repurposed. Candles flickered in sconces shaped like cupped hands, their fingers more delicate than the crude claws in the deep chambers, almost graceful in their stillness.
The walls were paneled in dark wood rather than lined with bone, but death hadn't been banished entirely. Subtle carvings wound through the wooden panels. Vines that, on closer inspection, were actually spine segments linked together, flowers with petals that resembled finger bones arranged in delicate whorls. The kind of details you might not notice unless you looked closely. The type that revealed itself slowly.
His shadows moved through the space, ensuring everything was properly arranged. A habit so automatic he barely noticed it anymore.
She took in the room with the same watchful sweep she had applied to his study, noting the exits, the sight lines, the way the shadows moved independently of any natural light source. Her gazelingered on the carved panels, recognition flickering across her features as she decoded the bone-vine patterns.
He found her vigilance oddly comforting in its predictability.
"Sit wherever you're comfortable," he said, taking his usual place at the head of the table.
She chose a chair that gave her a clear view of the door but was close enough that they could converse without shouting. The armrests were smooth dark wood, their ends curved into shapes that suggested knuckles, joints. Hands folded in repose rather than grasping.
She was close enough that he could read her expressions, note her reactions.
Close enough that his shadows kept trying to drift toward her, seeking her presence like she was some lodestone they couldn't resist.
He forced them back.
Servants appeared. Translucent figures that glided through the air without disturbing it. They set dishes before them, their forms solid enough to handle physical objects but bearing the faint luminescence that marked them as inhabitants of the death realm. The serving pieces were elegant: a wine decanter with a stopper carved from what might have been a small vertebra, and platters edged in silver filigree that echoed the bone-vine carvings on the walls. Once their tasks were complete, they faded back into the shadows, leaving no sound of footsteps or rustle of clothing.
The meal was familiar fare transformed by its passage through realms where death and life intermingled. Roasted meat that retained its savory richness but carried undertones of the otherworldly—magic woven into every bite. Fresh bread that looked ordinary but felt substantial in a way that suggested it would nourish more than just the body. Wine that tasted of dark berries and earth, but left a lingering coolness on the tongue that spoke of magic woven into its very essence.
She ate quickly, like someone who'd learned not to waste opportunities for good food, but her eyes kept darting to him, clearly unsure of the protocol for dining with a Death Lord.
"I don't poison my dinner guests," he said dryly. "If I wanted you dead, there are more efficient methods than tainted wine."
She paused, a piece of bread halfway to her mouth. "That's oddly reassuring."
"I thought so."
The corner of her mouth quirked upward for an instant as she settled back in her chair. The slight smile transformed her expression entirely, softening the sharp edges.
His shadows rippled around him at the sight, and he found himself wondering when the last time was that someone had smiled in his presence without fear.
"How long have you been a thief?" he asked, partly to redirect his thoughts and partly because he found himself genuinely curious.
She looked up sharply, as if trying to determine whether this was some test. "Ten years."
"What did you do before that?"
