Page 19 of Dark Elf Makes Five

Now she does look up, her hazel eyes wide with something approaching shock. "Bran won't get into any more fights. I'll speak with him tonight, make sure he understands⁠—"

"It doesn't matter if he chooses not to fight anymore." I sink back in my chair, studying the way her fingers have tightened around the quill. "The other children will continue to bully and harass the three of them regardless of his response."

"But surely if they just behave⁠—"

"I'm making arrangements for a tutor to come to the house. They can resume their lessons in the library instead."

She sets the quill down carefully, her movements deliberate as she processes this information. The silence hangs between us, broken only by the soft tick of the mantel clock and the distant sound of gardeners working in the courtyard below.

"I'm grateful for your generosity," she says finally, her voice measured. "And your willingness to hire a tutor for them. But I'm upset that you chose to do this without consulting me first."

Her chin lifts slightly, that familiar stubborn set to her jaw that I've observed during our previous conversations. "Despite not being their mother, they are my children. They are my responsibility."

"Protecting them is my responsibility, as I have brought them into my household."

"With all due respect, sir," she says tentatively, though her tone carries steel beneath the politeness, "you have no obligation or responsibility for any one of those children. They are human children in an elven world. Anyone else would have turned them out on the street."

I meet her gaze directly, watching the confusion swirl in those expressive eyes—confusion mixed with something that might be gratitude or might be fear. She genuinely cannot comprehend why I would extend such protection to her siblings, why I would care enough to shield them from the cruelties of prejudice.

The answer: because I simply choose to.

"They are not any children, and I am not any man." My voice communicates the finality of absolute certainty. "And you certainly aren't any woman."

I lean forward slightly, ensuring she understands the weight of what I'm about to say.

"All four of you are mine, and I will treat you as I would anything else that belongs to me—with care and intention. They will resume lessons here at the manor in the library once the tutor arrives."

Her cheeks are warm with blush, and she rolls her bottom lip between her teeth before finally exhaling. "Yes, my Lord."

11

KESSARA

Master Ramin arrives precisely at nine o'clock, his bony frame wrapped in a threadbare scholar's robe that has seen better decades. He carries a leather satchel that bulges with books and writing materials, his movements sharp and economical as he surveys the library with calculating eyes.

"You will address me as Master Ramin," he announces to the three children seated around the polished oak table. "I expect complete attention during lessons, and I will not tolerate fidgeting, whispering, or daydreaming."

Tobin's eyes widen at the stern tone, but Bran straightens his shoulders in that protective way he's always done when authority figures speak harshly to his siblings. Lysa simply nods solemnly, her small hands folded neatly in her lap.

I hover near the doorway, ostensibly organizing a stack of correspondence but really watching to ensure the children settle well with their new instructor. The morning light streams through the windows, illuminating the dust motes that dance above their heads as Master Ramin unpacks his materials with practiced efficiency.

"We begin with an assessment." He places sheets of parchment before each child, followed by quills and small pots of ink. "Write your name, then copy the passage I will dictate. This will show me where your education currently stands."

Bran picks up his quill with confidence, but I notice how Lysa grips hers like a weapon rather than a writing instrument. Tobin immediately gets ink on his fingers, leaving small black smudges on the pristine parchment.

"The wise farmer tends his fields with patience," Master Ramin begins, his voice carrying the rhythm of someone who has recited countless lessons. "For hasty hands yield bitter harvests."

I watch Bran's careful script flow across the page while Lysa frowns in concentration, her tongue poking out slightly as she forms each letter. Tobin scratches out several words and starts again, his face scrunched with determination.

"Adequate," Master Ramin pronounces after examining their work. "Though you, young lady, hold your quill like you're planning to stab someone with it."

Lysa giggles despite herself, and even Bran's mouth twitches with suppressed amusement. Master Ramin's expression remains stern, but I detect the slight softening around his eyes.

"Now we move to reading comprehension. Open your primers to page twelve."

The children bend over their books, and I take this as my cue to leave them to their studies. The morning's scribing duties are complete, and the kitchen staff will be starting preparations for the afternoon meal soon.

I slip quietly from the library, closing the door softly behind me before making my way down the corridor toward the kitchens. The air feels different today—warmer, with a gentle breeze that carries the scent of blooming fruit trees through the open windows. Spring has finally decided to show itself properly, and I find myself walking with lighter steps than I have in weeks.