Page 23 of His Emotional Support Snack

15

ESME

By the following afternoon, the sun bakes the crushed pearl stones of the courtyard, radiating a stifling heat that sticks the emerald silk to my spine.

I sit cross-legged on the manicured grass, the fabric of the gown pooling around my shins. Kalan rests between my knees, his small shoulders shifting as I gather the fine, silver strands of his hair. My fingers work with practiced speed, weaving the bright locks into a tight braid to keep it out of his eyes.

Vesper sprawls beside us. The massive Batlaz takes up most of the shade provided by the obsidian tree, his broad head resting heavily in my lap. He huffs, a warm puff of air stirring the hem of my gown, and closes his crimson eyes in complete contentment.

I drag a thumb over the beast’s bristling snout, the rough fur catching against my skin.

A fragile peace coats the Tagnadaet estate. For the last eight weeks, the constant threat of Zatori’s assassins has receded behind the impenetrable wall of Zuirvih’s restored magic. I eat hot meals. I sleep without a knife tucked under my pillow. Kalan laughs, chasing the carnivorous blossoms and tackling the monstrous guard beast without a trace of fear.

But the peace is a mirage. The ice beneath my boots is cracking.

I tie off Kalan’s braid with a scrap of leather. The boy immediately scrambles to his feet, grabbing a fallen obsidian branch to initiate a mock battle with the drowsing Batlaz.

I rise, dusting the grass from my silk skirt, and walk toward the shaded archway connecting the courtyard to the western corridor. The air cools slightly under the stone eaves.

Voices drift from the slightly ajar iron doors of the master study.

The low, rumbling timbre of Commander Jarek cuts through the quiet afternoon. I press my shoulder against the stone wall, the rough granite biting into my bare skin, and hold my breath.

"The Lowtown overseers are uncooperative, my lord." Jarek’s voice carries a rare note of frustration. "Zatori’s agents are also sniffing around the district archives. We had to extract the information manually."

"I require facts, Jarek, not excuses regarding your methods." Zuirvih’s response is a freezing, lethal purr. The sound makes the hairs on my arms spike up, a conditioned response to the monster playing his political games. "Did you locate the documentation?"

"We secured a ledger from the harbor district." The rustle of stiff parchment echoes through the crack in the doors. "It contains the slave certificates for unregistered laborers. We found the entry for your late brother’s confirmed human companion. Amara."

My pulse flatlines.

The blood drains from my face, rushing straight to my boots. A cold, nauseating dread pools in my stomach, twisting my organs into tight knots.

"Read the entry." Zuirvih commands.

"Amara. Female. Unregistered laborer. Deceased three years prior from unknown toxins." Jarek pauses, the silence stretching into an agonizing eternity. "The certificate lists a dependent born prior to her death. A half-blood male. Kalan."

The ground tilts. I press my palms flat against the stone wall, fighting the sudden urge to vomit. The slave certificates. The brutal, bureaucratic ledgers the dark elf overseers use to track their livestock. When Amara died, the overseer demanded a name to transfer the responsibility of the "pest." I gave them mine.

"Does the ledger list a surviving guardian?" The sharp tang of magic bleeds through the crack in the door, a sharp, metallic scent indicating Zuirvih’s rising agitation.

"It does, my lord." Jarek’s voice drops. "A sister. Esmeralda. She is listed as the maternal aunt."

The trap snaps shut.

I push away from the wall, my bare feet silent on the black marble. I do not run. Running draws the predators. I walk back into the blinding sunlight of the courtyard, my chest tight, my lungs refusing to expand.

He knows.

The lie keeping me tethered to the Tagnadaet estate is exposed. The Khuzuth elite tolerate my presence solely because they believe I am the biological mother of a noble’s bloodline. It is a twisted, fragile loophole in their caste laws. An aunt holds no legal claim. An aunt is disposable. A piece of stolen property harboring an heir.

If Zuirvih presents the truth to the high council, Zatori will demand my immediate execution for deceiving a Khuzuth lord. If Zuirvih hides the truth, he risks his own standing, protecting a useless human stray. He needs my blood, yes, but he can drain me in the dungeons just as easily as he feeds from my wrist in the master suite.

I reach Kalan, snatching the obsidian branch from his hands.

"Hey!" He protests, his eyes wide with betrayal.

"We are going inside." My voice is clipped, a harsh rasp I cannot control. I grab his small hand, my grip tighter than necessary, and drag him toward the glass archways of the master suite.