Page 33 of Dark Elf Makes Five

Then the silence eases into a frenzy of whispered conversations and sharp glances. We continue deeper into the ballroom as if we own the very air we breathe.

Lady Vespira approaches with the fluid grace of someone born to command attention. Her gown shimmers like moonlight on water, and her smile carries the calculated warmth of a seasoned politician.

"Lord Morvath, what an honor." She extends her hand, which Zerion kisses with practiced courtesy. "And this must be your... companion."

I execute the curtsy Mrs. Adlren drilled into me, managing not to collapse in a heap of silk and humiliation. "Your Ladyship."

"Charming," Lady Vespira murmurs, though her eyes assess me like a merchant evaluating questionable merchandise.

Before the conversation can progress further, another figure glides toward us. The woman approaching commands attention without effort—midnight-black hair arranged in elaborate spirals, pale silver eyes lined with dark cosmetics that make them appear almost luminous. Her gown, deep burgundy silk embroidered with intricate patterns, probably costs more than most people earn in a lifetime.

She moves with the confidence of someone accustomed to being the most beautiful woman in any room.

"Zerion, darling." Her voice carries the musical quality of cultured nobility.

"Lady Selmyra," Zerion acknowledges with the barest inclination of his head. His tone carries all the warmth of winter steel.

So this is Selmyra. I let my gaze travel from her elaborately arranged hair to the tips of her silk slippers, taking inventory like I once assessed potential marks in the marketplace. The midnight hair gleams with oils that are worth more than my family's yearly earnings, and those silver eyes hold the calculating gleam of someone accustomed to getting exactly what she wants.

But there's something else there, something that makes my chest constrict with unexpected sympathy. Desperation. It clings to her like expensive perfume—invisible to most, but unmistakable once you recognize the scent. I've worn that same desperation, felt it gnaw at your bones when everything you've built threatens to crumble.

The difference is I never had the luxury of hiding it behind silk gowns and practiced smiles.

"How delightful to see you've decided to grace us with your presence. Though I must say, I'm curious—do you now recruit your servants directly from the streets?" Selmyra's attention settles on me, a blade finding its target.

The insult lands, designed to cut without appearing overtly hostile. Around us, conversations pause as nobles strain to hear my response.

I summon every ounce of the woman who faced down a dark elf lord in his own garden. "Actually, Lord Morvath's household values competence over noble bloodlines. Which, fortunately for you, my lady, has never been a requirement for attendance at these gatherings."

Zerion's mouth curves into the faintest smirk, barely visible but unmistakable to anyone watching closely. The exchange draws murmurs from nearby nobles already irritated by the scandal my presence represents.

The woman's silver eyes flash with something dangerous. "How refreshingly... direct."

A man stumbles closer through the suddenly interested crowd—clearly deep in his cups, his formal attire rumpled and wine-stained in a way that suggests he started drinking well before the evening's formal festivities began. His cravat hangs loose around his neck, his jacket is unbuttoned, and there's a distinct glassiness to his pale grey eyes that speaks of profound intoxication. He leers at me with the entitled confidence of someone who's never faced consequences for his actions, someone who believes his noble status grants him immunity from basic decency.

"So this is Morvath's pet human," he slurs, his breath reeking of expensive wine as he sways forward, invading my personal space with aggressive familiarity. His words carry loud enough that several nearby nobles turn to watch with poorly concealed interest. "Tell me, girl, what tricks has he taught you? Are you as obedient as they say?"

He reaches out to grab my arm with clumsy but insistent fingers, his grip already tightening before he even makes contact. I feel my muscles tense, preparing to jerk away or possibly deliver an elbow to his ribs—street instincts never entirely fade, regardless of what silk dress I'm wearing.

But before I can react, before I can even complete the thought of pulling back, Zerion's hand closes around the man's wrist with deadly precision, his movements so swift and controlled they seem almost casual despite their obvious force.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

18

ZERION

The drunk's wrist feels fragile beneath my grip, bones shifting under wine-softened flesh. Around us, conversations halt mid-sentence as nobles crane their necks to witness whatever spectacle is about to unfold. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast fractured light across dozens of faces frozen in anticipation.

"Wouldn't do what?" he slurs, blinking owlishly as if my words require translation into a language his sodden brain can process.

I position myself between him and Kessara, my body creating a barrier that leaves no doubt about my intentions. "Touch what doesn't belong to you."

His laugh comes out as a wet cough that reeks of expensive wine and poor decisions. "Back in my day, elven lords shared human pussy like a fine cigar to be passed around the table." He gestures vaguely with his free hand, nearly losing his balance. "No reason that should change now, eh?"

Every muscle fiber in my body is wound tight, violence singing through my veins with the clarity of a blade drawn from its sheath. The careful control I've maintained for decades—the mask of civilized nobility—cracks like ice under pressure.

He lunges forward again, reaching past me toward Kessara with drunken determination.