Page 28 of Dark Elf Makes Five

KESSARA

The kitchen gossip reaches me while I'm scrubbing pots, delivered in hushed tones by the scullery maid who can't contain her excitement over the morning's revelation.

"Gone without a trace, they say. Shop's been cleared out completely."

My hands still in the soapy water. "Who's gone?"

"That merchant—Korven. The one with the spice stall." She leans closer, eyes bright with the thrill of scandal. "Left in the middle of the night, didn't even settle his debts."

The pot slips from my fingers, clanging against the basin's bottom. Korven. The round-faced bastard who called me a whore just days ago while half the market listened. The same man who doubled down when I threatened him with Zerion's displeasure.

"When?"

"Few nights past. Neighbors say they heard a wagon leaving before dawn, but nobody saw where it went." The maid's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Some folk think he just ran off to avoid his creditors, but others..."

She doesn't finish the thought. She doesn't need to.

I dry my hands on my apron with sharp, efficient movements, my mind racing through the timeline. Three days ago, Korven insults me publicly. Yesterday, Zerion asks casual questions about my market trip—questions I deflect with careful lies. Today, Korven vanishes like smoke.

The coincidence tastes bitter as old copper in my mouth.

"Where are you going?" The maid calls after me as I stride toward the door.

"To find Lord Morvath."

I don't knock. The study door swings open under my palm, rattling the hinges, announcing my presence more effectively than any polite request for audience. Zerion sits behind his massive oak desk, silver head bent over what looks like correspondence about grain shipments—the picture of a lord absorbed in tedious but necessary estate business.

He doesn't look up when I enter.

"What did you do?"

His quill continues moving across the parchment in elegant strokes, as if my question carries no more weight than commenting on the weather. A muscle in my jaw twitches as I watch him complete whatever sentence demands his immediate attention.

"You'll need to be more specific."

"Korven. The merchant from the spice stall." I plant my hands on the desk's edge, leaning forward until I'm close enough to see the grey flecks in his eyes when he finally deigns to glance up. "He's gone. Vanished. Cleared out his entire shop in the dead of night."

"How unfortunate." Zerion sets down his quill with deliberate care, aligning it precisely with the edge of an inkwell. "I trust someone will fill the vacancy soon. The town needs reliable spice merchants."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't sit there pretending you don't know exactly what I'm talking about." My voice rises despite my efforts to maintain control. "Three days ago that man calls me a whore in front of half the market. Today he's disappeared without a trace. You expect me to believe that's coincidence?"

Zerion picks up another document—something about repairs to the south wall that apparently requires his urgent review. "I expect you to focus on your duties rather than concerning yourself with the travel plans of local merchants."

The dismissal in his tone ignites something dangerous in my chest. I reach across the desk and snatch the paper from his hands, crumpling it between my fingers before he can react.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Now his attention fixes on me completely, pale grey eyes holding mine with an intensity that would have sent me scrambling for the door weeks ago. Instead, I hold my ground, matching his stare with the stubborn defiance that's kept me alive through years of hunger and hardship.

"What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"I'm asking what happened to Korven."

"And I'm telling you I have no idea why a merchant might choose to relocate his business." His voice remains maddeningly level. "Perhaps he found better opportunities elsewhere. Perhaps creditors were pressing him for payment. Perhaps he simply grew tired of small-town life."