Page 48 of Dark Elf Makes Five

Guards. More than usual, positioned at strategic points along the hallway. Captain Draven stands near the library entrance, his weathered face stern as he issues quiet orders to two younger soldiers.

"Stay within sight of the doors at all times," he instructs. "No one approaches without identification."

My stomach tightens, twisting into a familiar knot of unease. The children disappear into the library with Master Ramin, their excited voices gradually fading behind the heavy oak doors until only muffled echoes remain. I take a steadying breath and approach Draven, forcing my spine straight and my expression carefully neutral despite the alarm bells clanging insistently in my head. Something about the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hand rests near his sword hilt, sets my instincts screaming.

"Captain." I nod toward the additional guards stationed along the corridor like silent sentinels. "Expecting trouble?"

His gray eyes assess me with the professional detachment of a man who's spent decades evaluating threats. There's no hostility in his gaze, but no warmth either—just cool calculation. "Lord Morvath's orders, Miss Thornefield. Additional security for the young miss and misters during their studies."

The formal phrasing does nothing to ease the tension coiling in my shoulders. I cross my arms over my chest, the fine silk of my borrowed dress whispering softly with the movement—a reminder of how out of place I still feel in these clothes, in this life. "They're children studying arithmetic and history, not planning some sort of rebellion against the crown."

"Lord Morvath values their safety above all else." Draven's tone remains maddeningly neutral, revealing absolutely nothing beyond the bare facts. His weathered face could be carved from stone for all the emotion it shows.

"Safety from what?" I press, hearing the edge creeping into my voice. The evasiveness feels too familiar—like every authority figure who ever dismissed my questions in the village, every official who looked through me rather than at me.

"That would be a question for Lord Morvath, miss." The diplomatic non-answer is delivered with perfect military precision.

The careful deflection sends irritation sparking hot through my chest, burning away some of my earlier disappointment and replacing it with frustration.

"Right. Of course." The words emerge sharper than intended, tinged with sarcasm I don't bother to hide.

I turn on my heel and march back into the library, my borrowed slippers making barely a whisper against the polished stone floors of the corridor. The heavy door swings open beneath my palm, and I step into the familiar space where Master Ramin has already transformed the massive wooden table into a scholar's domain. Parchment lies spread across the dark surface in neat rows, quills arranged with military precision beside ceramic inkwells. The afternoon light slanting through the tall windows catches on the brass fittings of the scholarly texts stacked at the table's edge.

The children look up expectantly as I enter, their faces open and trusting in a way that makes something twist painfully in my chest.

"Can we see the equus after lessons?" Lysa asks immediately, her eyes bright with an anticipation only children can muster for simple pleasures. She's been talking about the stables for days now. "Mrs. Aldren said there's a mare with a new foal, and she promised we could watch them in the paddock if we finished all our reading."

My throat constricts around words I can’t speak. Through the windows behind her, I can still picture those guards positioned like sentries, their presence heavy with implications I don't fully understand. The sight makes my skin crawl with an unease I can't quite name. "Actually, I think we should stay inside today." I hear myself say the words, hating how they sound. "The weather looks... uncertain."

"But it's beautiful outside," Tobin protests immediately, already half-rising from his chair to point toward the tall windows where golden sunlight streams across the polished floor in broad bands, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. "There's not a single cloud, Kessa. Look!"

"Plans change," I say, forcing an artificial brightness into my voice that sounds hollow even to my own ears. The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "Maybe Master Ramin has something particularly fascinating planned for today's lessons instead."

The ancient tutor adjusts his spectacles, clearly sensing the tension. "Indeed. We shall be reviewing the histories of the great libraries. Quite riveting material."

Bran's chair scrapes against the floor as he pushes back from the table. "This is ridiculous, Kessa. We're not prisoners here."

"Of course not." But the words taste like ash on my tongue.

"Then why can't we leave this room? Why are there guards watching us like we might bolt?" His voice has the sharp edge of adolescent frustration mixed with genuine concern. "What aren't you telling us?"

I move to the window, ostensibly to check the weather but really to study the courtyard below. More guards patrol the grounds than I've ever seen, their movements deliberate and alert.

"The restrictions are temporary," I tell him, though my reflection in the glass looks as unconvinced as I feel. "Lord Morvath is simply being cautious."

Something cold crawls up my spine as I watch a guard gesture toward the library windows. The sensation settles between my shoulder blades like ice, and I find myself doubting every reassuring word that just left my lips.

26

ZERION

The tavern reeks of unwashed bodies and stale ale, the kind of establishment where questions aren't asked and memories conveniently fade with enough coin. I pull the rough wool hood lower over my face, the coarse fabric scratching against my skin—a deliberate discomfort that keeps me alert. The honey mead before me tastes like it was filtered through a stable floor, but I nurse it slowly, watching the entrance through lowered lashes.

Dawn came too early this morning, forcing me from silk sheets that still carried Kessara's scent. I'd studied her sleeping form in the pale light—lips slightly parted, dark hair spilled across the pillow like ink on parchment. The sight stirred something dangerously possessive in my chest, a need to protect that went beyond mere obligation.

The tavern door creaks open, admitting a figure in weathered leather who moves with military precision despite his common clothes. Draven's eyes sweep the room once before settling on my corner table. He approaches with the casual gait of a working man, but I catch subtle tension in his shoulders.

"Rough morning for traveling," he says, settling into the chair across from me. His voice has the accent of the outer provinces rather than his usual clipped military tone.