Page 13 of Dark Elf Makes Five

I follow him through the maze of hallways, past portraits of stern-faced dark elves whose painted eyes seem to track our movement. The study he leads me to reeks of old leather and ink, its walls lined floor-to-ceiling with books that cost more than entire villages. Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that dance like tiny spirits in the air.

Lord Morvath rounds his massive oak desk and settles into his chair with a fluid grace. The leather creaks softly as he leans forward, pulling open a drawer with deliberate precision. He withdraws a stack of books—ledgers, I realize—and drops them onto the desk's surface with a solid thunk that makes me flinch.

"I want these transcribed to new books. More organized."

I step closer, peering at the worn covers and yellowed pages that peek from between them. The handwriting visible on the exposed pages looks cramped and hurried, numbers and notes scrawled in what look like three different scripts.

"You might be better off having someone more well-read do this for you." The words tumble out before I’m able to stop them, worry gnawing at my stomach. "I could mess something up, misread a figure or⁠—"

His gaze locks onto mine with laser intensity, cutting through my rambling like a sharp blade through silk. The weight of his attention settles over me, heavy and inescapable.

"I want you to do it. No one else."

The finality in his voice brooks no argument. I reach for the stack of ledgers, fingers closing around the worn leather binding of the top book. The weight surprises me—these aren't simple household accounts but substantial records spanning what looks like years.

"Where are you going?"

His question stops me mid-step, one foot already turned toward the door. A chill runs down my spine like ice water, raising gooseflesh along my arms.

"To scribe these ledgers, My Lord."

"You will sit here and do them." His voice carries that same measured authority that sent my siblings off to school without protest. "Those books are not allowed to leave this room."

Heat floods my neck and face in a rush that makes my skin prickle. Hours. I'll have to spend hours in here, trapped in the same space with him, feeling those ghostly eyes track my every movement while I struggle through his records.

I nod stiffly and settle into the chair positioned beside his desk, pulling the first ledger toward me. The leather binding creaks as I open it, revealing pages dense with cramped handwriting and columns of figures that blur together in the morning light.

The work proves tedious but manageable. Numbers flow from one page to another in neat rows—grain purchases, livestock sales, wages paid to field hands. My hand moves steadily across fresh parchment, translating the chaotic scrawl into organized columns that actually make sense.

Minutes crawl into hours. The sun shifts higher through tall windows, casting different shadows across the desk as I labor through page after page. My fingers begin to ache from gripping the quill, knuckles stiff from the repetitive motion of forming letters and numbers. A dull throb settles into my wrist, radiating up my forearm with each stroke of ink.

But at least the work doesn't make me dizzy. Unlike scrubbing floors or hauling laundry, this task lets me remain seated, lets me breathe normally without the lightheaded spells that sometimes plague me when I haven't eaten enough. Small mercies.

Lord Morvath remains at his desk throughout, occasionally shuffling through his own papers or making notes with a different quill. The scratch of his pen provides counterpoint to mine, a strange sort of companionable silence settling over the study. I steal glances at him when I think he's not looking—the way his silver hair catches the light, how his grey eyes track across whatever document holds his attention.

"Halvren!"

His sudden shout shatters the quiet like glass hitting stone. I gasp, my hand jerking across the page and leaving an ugly ink blot where a neat figure should be. The quill tumbles from my fingers, clattering against the desktop.

Heat blooms in my cheeks as I stare at the ruined entry. Hours of careful work, and now I'll have to start this entire page over because⁠—

"My apologies." His voice carries genuine regret, softer than his usual commanding tone. "I didn't mean to startle you."

The study door opens before I can respond, admitting Master Halvren with the punctuality of a man who has spent decades anticipating his lord's needs. His gray beard is perfectly trimmed, his vest spotless despite the early hour.

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Bring a platter of refreshments. Something substantial." Lord Morvath's gaze flicks to me, then back to his steward. "Water as well. For both of us."

My spine stiffens. "That isn't necessary⁠—"

"It is."

The finality in those two words cuts through my protest like a blade. Master Halvren nods once and disappears as efficiently as he arrived, leaving me all alone with Lord Morvath once again.

I pick up the fallen quill, testing its tip against a scrap of parchment. Still functional, thankfully.

His matter-of-fact tone makes it sound like the most reasonable thing in the world, as if providing for his people is simply another duty to be discharged with the same efficiency he applies to everything else.