Page 16 of Dark Elf Makes Five

"You'll bore holes through that door if you stare any harder."

I turn to find Jorik grinning at me from across the table, his arms full of folded napkins. The zagfer's pointed ears twitch with amusement as he sets down his burden and begins placing the cream-colored linen beside each plate. His movements carry the easy efficiency of someone who's performed this task countless times, unlike my own careful deliberation over fork placement.

"I'm not staring." The protest sounds weak even to my ears.

"Course not. Just happened to catch you checking that doorway for the fifteenth time in as many minutes." He smooths a napkin with practiced ease. "They'll be back soon enough, you know. School lets out at the same time every day."

Heat creeps up my neck as I focus on arranging the last few pieces of silverware. The knife goes on the right, blade facing inward. Or was it outward? I've watched the other staff set these tables for days, but the rules of noble dining still feel foreign on my tongue.

"I'm not used to being away from them for so long." The admission comes out before I can help it, vulnerability bleeding through my carefully maintained composure.

Jorik's expression softens, his teasing grin fading into something more understanding. "Raised them yourself, didn't you?"

I nod, not trusting my voice. The weight of those years presses against my chest—sleepless nights when Tobin ran fever, mornings when there wasn't enough food to go around, the constant fear that one mistake would tear us apart.

"Well, you're lucky then." He moves to the next chair, his tone matter-of-fact. "Lucky to be the subject of his lordship's generosity. Lord Morvath's got a reputation for taking care of what's his, and he wouldn't let any harm come to those little humans of yours."

The casual way he says 'his' makes my stomach flutter with something I can't recognize. Not fear, exactly, but not comfort either.

"So long as you do what you're told and keep your nose clean, he'll probably take care of them until they come of age. Maybe even find them positions here alongside the rest of us." Jorik straightens a wine glass with careful precision. "Better life than most humans can hope for in these parts."

I want to argue, to insist that we're not charity cases or pets to be cared for on a whim. But the words lodge in my throat because he's right. The children are eating regular meals, sleeping in warm beds, attending school like the merchant families' children. Bran's shoulders have lost their perpetual hunch of hunger, and Lysa actually laughs now instead of just smiling quietly to avoid drawing attention.

The sound of approaching voices drifts through the entrance hall, young and wonderfully familiar.

Mrs. Aldren sweeps through the dining room like a woman on a mission, her greying hair pulled into its usual severe bun. She nods curtly at Jorik and me before disappearing through the servants' door toward the kitchen, her footsteps already quickening with purpose.

Then I hear them—three sets of familiar footsteps echoing through the entrance hall. But something feels wrong. The usual chatter that follows them home each day is absent, replaced by hushed whispers and the scuff of reluctant feet against marble.

Bran rounds the corner first, his shoulders rigid with tension. Lysa trails behind him, her wide eyes darting between her brother and the floor. Tobin brings up the rear, practically vibrating with the effort of keeping his mouth shut.

My heart clenches at the sight of their carefully neutral expressions. After years of reading every micro-expression, every shift in posture, I know when my siblings are hiding something.

"How was school today?"

"Fine." The word comes out too quickly from all three of them, a chorus of forced casualness that immediately sets my teeth on edge.

Lysa's gaze flickers toward the doorway just as Lord Zerion strides into the dining room, an open ledger balanced in one hand. He settles into his usual chair at the head of the table with fluid grace, pale grey eyes scanning the pages as if nothing in the world could disturb his concentration.

But I see the way Tobin's eyes widen when he spots the dark elf lord, and how Bran's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

I plant my hands on my hips and summon the voice that once made all four of us freeze in our tracks when Mother used it. The voice that could cut through any excuse or deflection with surgical precision.

"What. Happened."

The silence stretches for exactly three heartbeats before Tobin cracks like an egg hitting stone.

"The teacher said she might expel Bran from school for getting into a fight!"

The words tumble forth in a rush, and my stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. I whip around to face Bran, really looking at him for the first time since he walked in. His dark hair hangs loose around his face instead of the neat bun I'd tied back this morning, and he's holding his head at an odd angle.

"Bran!"

I reach for him, but he tries to dodge away. My hands are faster, catching his chin and tilting his face toward the light. He swats at my fingers, but I brush his hair aside and reveal the damage—a bruise blooming purple and black along his jaw, the skin swollen and tender.

"Bran! What happened? You know better than to do something so reckless!"

He yanks away from my grip, his green eyes flashing with the same stubborn fire I see in my own reflection.