Page 14 of Dark Elf Makes Five

I bend back over the ledger, carefully beginning the ruined page anew. But questions swirl through my mind like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind. Everything I've heard about dark elves speaks of cruelty, of cold indifference to human suffering. Yet here sits one who ensures his human employees eat regularly, who sends children to school, who apologizes for startling a lowly thief-turned-scribe.

How does a man from such a heartless race manage to be so... kind?

8

ZERION

She eats like someone who expects the plate to vanish at any moment. Small, deliberate bites followed by careful chewing, as if her body needs time to remember what proper nourishment feels like. Between each morsel, her hazel eyes drift back to the ledger, fingers already reaching for the quill before she's finished swallowing.

I watch this ritual from behind my own papers, fascinated despite myself. The way she savors the cheese, the reverent pause before tearing another piece of bread—every gesture speaks of someone who's known true hunger. Not the fashionable fasting of court ladies or the occasional missed meal of the busy, but the gnawing emptiness that becomes a constant companion.

Something about her captivates me in a way I can't quite articulate. Perhaps it's the stubborn tilt of her chin when she thinks I'm not looking, or how she unconsciously straightens her spine whenever our eyes meet. She refuses to appear diminished, even seated in my study wearing clothes that hang loose on her too-thin frame.

But she belongs to me now. The thought settles into my mind with surprising comfort. Not in the crude sense that some of my kind might claim ownership over humans, but in something more fundamental. She needs what I can provide—security, food, shelter for those siblings she'd die protecting. As long as I continue to meet those needs, she'll remain here. The arrangement benefits us both, but the certainty of it pleases me more than it should.

I study the plain brown wool of her skirt, the simple cut of her linen blouse. Practical garments chosen for durability rather than beauty, much like what she'd selected for the children during her trip to town. But I find myself imagining different fabrics against her skin—deep blue silk that would bring out her eyes, perhaps, or emerald green that would complement her sun-touched complexion.

With proper feeding, her sharp angles will soften into curves. The hollow beneath her cheekbones will fill, her wrists will lose that bird-like fragility. Already I can see hints of the woman she'll become once her body no longer sacrifices itself to keep her siblings fed. The transformation will be remarkable.

She glances up, catching me watching, and heat flickers in those hazel depths before she looks away. Her hand trembles slightly as she reaches for the water goblet, though whether from my attention or simple fatigue, I can't tell.

The knock at my study door shatters the comfortable silence like a stone through glass.

"Enter."

Halvren enters with his customary bow, though something tight around his eyes betrays his usual composure.

"My lord, forgive the disturbance." His fingers worry his sleeve. "Lady Selmyra Dareth is here to see you. She insists the matter is urgent."

Irritation climbs up the back of my neck like a slow-burning fuse. Selmyra's timing has always been impeccable in the worst possible way. I nod stiffly, already calculating how quickly I can dispatch whatever manufactured crisis she's brought to my door.

As I stand, my chair scraping on the stone floor, Kessara glances up from the ledger. Her quill hovers above the page, a small drop of ink threatening to fall.

"Should I leave your study as well? Wait to resume until you return?"

I tilt my head, studying her earnest expression. The corner of my mouth lifts despite my annoyance.

"Do you intend to rob me blind?"

She balks, color flooding her cheeks as she scrambles to respond. "No! Of course not, I would never⁠—"

My chuckle cuts through her flustered protests. "Then you may stay here and continue your duties."

"Lead the way, Halvren."

The parlor doors open to reveal Selmyra arranged on the velvet settee like a painting of aristocratic leisure. Her midnight hair cascades over one shoulder in an elaborate braid threaded with silver ribbon, and her pale eyes are rimmed with the dark kohl that makes them appear luminous against her ash-toned skin. The deep purple of her gown hugs her curves with calculated precision, the neckline low enough to be noticed but high enough to maintain respectability.

What catches my attention, however, is what she's not wearing. No black veil drapes her hair, no mourning jewelry adorns her throat. The absence speaks louder than any declaration.

"Lady Dareth." The greeting falls flat between us. "You're out of mourning already?"

Her smile curves like a blade wrapped in expensive silks. "Staying trapped in the past gets one killed, my lord. Especially a woman in my position."

She lifts her chin with practiced grace, as if dispensing wisdom rather than justifying her haste to abandon her husband's memory.

"To what do I owe this unceremonious visit?"

Selmyra's laugh tinkles like breaking crystal as she waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, Zerion, you know I've never stood on ceremony with old friends."