Page 26 of Dark Elf Makes Five

Kessara steps inside, her posture carefully composed despite the tension radiating from her frame. She's changed from her market clothes into a simple work dress, but I catch a faint tremor in her hands as she closes the door behind her.

"You wanted to see me?"

"How did your trip proceed?" I keep my voice neutral, curious to see what version of events she'll choose to share.

"Well enough." She meets my gaze directly, though something flickers behind her hazel eyes. "The merchants were... accommodating."

"You obtained everything on Halvren's list?"

Her fingers worry the fabric of her skirt. "Most of it. Some items weren't available today."

The lie comes smoothly, delivered with the practiced ease of someone who's learned to protect herself through careful omissions. I could press her for details, force her to admit what Draven already reported. Instead, I simply nod.

"Of course. Such shortages are common this time of year."

Relief flashes across her features so quickly I might have imagined it. She straightens, clearly expecting dismissal.

"That will be all."

"Thank you." She turns toward the door, her movements carrying the careful grace of someone who's learned not to appear eager to escape authority figures.

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me with my thoughts and the lingering scent of orchard leaves that seems to follow her everywhere. She chose not to tell me what happened. Not from shame, I suspect, but from that stubborn pride that refuses to appear weak even when seeking help might be the wiser course.

The knock on my study door comes precisely at the appointed time—Draven's military precision ensuring our guest arrives neither early enough to suggest eagerness nor late enough to imply disrespect. I don't look up from the documents spread across my desk as boots shuffle across the threshold.

"The merchant Korven, my lord."

Now I raise my head, letting my gaze settle on the round-faced man whose attention darts frantically around the room before finally landing on me. His shrewd eyes—the same ones that assessed Kessara yesterday—now carry the nervous energy of prey suddenly realizing it's entered a predator's domain.

"Mr. Korven." I gesture toward the chair positioned across from my desk. "Sit."

He obeys like a trained dog, settling into the chair with the eager deference of a man who believes this meeting might actually benefit him. The sight brings me no satisfaction—only the cold recognition that some people mistake civility for weakness until reality corrects their misunderstanding.

I allow silence to stretch between us, watching him fidget with his sleeve cuffs while his gaze darts from the bookshelves to the weapons mounted on the wall. Sweat beads along his forehead despite the autumn chill seeping through the stone walls.

"You had an interesting conversation with one of my household staff, it seems."

His face brightens with what he apparently mistakes for opportunity. "Ah yes, the human girl. Quite the spirited thing, isn't she? Though I must say, my lord, her manner suggests you're treating her rather well for⁠—"

"Stop."

The single word cuts through his rambling like a blade through parchment. His mouth snaps shut, though his eyes continue to gleam with the particular malice of small men who've discovered what they believe to be someone else's weakness.

"You will offer a formal apology for the insults you directed toward someone under my protection."

He blinks rapidly, as if the words refuse to arrange themselves into comprehensible meaning. "My lord, surely you cannot be serious. I merely spoke the truth that everyone already whispers. A human woman living in your manor, accepting your coin⁠—"

"The apology."

"I will not apologize for stating what any decent elf can see." His voice rises, emboldened by what he mistakes for righteousness. "You humiliate our entire society by associating with her kind. What will the other noble houses think? What will they say about dark elf dignity when Lord Morvath keeps a human whore⁠—"

My hand moves before conscious thought intervenes. Fingers close around his throat, hauling him from the chair, scattering papers across the desk's surface. His feet scramble for purchase as I drag him across the polished wood, his face inches from mine.

"You misunderstand your position here."

His eyes bulge as my grip tightens, cutting off whatever protest he might voice. The scent of fear-sweat mingles with cheap cologne and market dust. His hands claw uselessly at my wrist, nails scraping against fabric but finding no purchase.

"That woman carries out tasks on my behalf. She acts with my authority. When you insult her, you insult me directly." My voice remains level, conversational even, as if discussing grain prices rather than the final moments of his miserable existence. "Did you truly believe such disrespect would pass without consequence?"