Page 5 of Dark Elf Makes Five

Bran's mouth opens, then snaps shut. For a heartbeat, uncertainty flickers across his features—even he recognizes the name that governs our lives from a distance. But his protective instincts surge back stronger than his common sense.

"I don't care if you're the bloody king of the elves!" Bran's voice cracks with renewed fury. "You had no right to drag us from our home! Where's my sister? What have you done with Kessa? I swear by all the gods, if you've hurt her, I'll⁠—"

"Children!"

My voice cuts through his tirade like a blade. All three pairs of eyes snap toward me—Bran's wild green gaze, Tobin's freckled face twisted with confusion, and Lysa's wide hazel eyes brimming with unshed tears. The sight of their fear sends a sharp pain through my chest.

I rush toward them, my hands outstretched. "You're safe. You're all safe. No one's going to hurt you."

The guards exchange glances before unceremoniously releasing their captives. Bran hits the marble floor with a grunt, Tobin tumbles in a heap of flailing limbs, and Lysa lands on her feet with surprising grace. They scramble upright and race toward me like iron filings drawn to a magnet.

I drop to my knees just in time to catch them as they barrel into me. Lysa's arms wrap around my neck, her small body trembling against mine. Tobin burrows into my side, his face buried in my shoulder. Bran, despite his tough front, crushes himself against my other side with desperate relief.

"We thought they took you away forever." Lysa's voice breaks on a sob. "The guards came and wouldn't tell us anything. They just said we had to come with them."

"I told them you'd never leave us willingly." Tobin's words are muffled against my shirt. "I knew something terrible happened."

I smooth down Lysa's tangled curls, my fingers working through the knots with practiced gentleness. Her small face tilts up toward mine, tears still clinging to her dark lashes like dewdrops.

"Nothing terrible has happened." I cup her face between my palms, meeting her wide hazel eyes. "I'm going to work here for Lord Morvath, and he's going to let us all live here in exchange for wages."

Tobin pulls back from my shoulder, his freckled nose scrunched in confusion. "Live here? In the big house?"

"That's right." I turn to Bran, whose green eyes still burn with suspicion as they dart between me and Lord Morvath. "We'll have proper beds and regular meals. No more wondering where our next supper will come from."

Bran's jaw works silently, the weight of responsibility he's carried for years warring with relief in his expression. His hands, still stained with dirt from morning farm work, clench and unclench at his sides.

"What kind of work?" His voice cracks slightly, betraying the boy beneath his protective facade.

"Household duties. Nothing I can't handle." I ruffle his dark hair, the same shade as mine. "But enough of that. Come to the kitchen and eat something. You all look ready to collapse."

I stand, brushing dust from my skirts, and reach for Lysa's hand. The promise of food brightens her face immediately—she's always been the hungriest of us, too young to understand why her stomach aches constantly.

"No."

Lord Morvath's voice cuts through our reunion like a knife through silk. I freeze, my hand halfway to Lysa's, as his pale grey gaze settles on me with unmistakable authority.

"They will eat with me in the dining room." He adjusts his dark coat with deliberate precision. "Halvren, make the arrangements."

The elderly steward materializes from the shadows as if summoned by magic, his lined face betraying nothing. "Of course, my lord. Shall I have Cook prepare additional portions?"

"See to it."

Bran steps protectively in front of Tobin and Lysa, his thin frame rigid with defiance. "We don't need your charity, elf. The kitchen's fine for the likes of us."

Lord Morvath's pale eyebrows lift fractionally, amusement flickering in those otherworldly eyes. "I wasn't aware I'd asked for your preferences."

The dining room stretches before us like a cathedral of wealth—mahogany panels gleaming in candlelight, portraits of stern-faced elves watching from gilded frames, and a table long enough to seat twenty. Crystal glasses catch the light from an elaborate chandelier, throwing rainbow fragments across the pristine white cloth.

Lysa's mouth falls open as she takes in the splendor. "It's like a palace from the stories."

"Don't touch anything," Bran mutters, but his own eyes widen at the opulent display.

Lord Morvath settles at the head of the table with fluid grace, his silver hair catching the light like spun moonbeams. He gestures toward chairs clustered near his end, close enough for conversation but far enough to maintain the hierarchy between lord and servants.

A young maid appears with silent efficiency, setting fresh bowls before each of us. Steam rises from the rich stew, carrying scents that make my siblings' stomachs growl audibly. Thick chunks of beef swim in dark gravy alongside tender carrots and potatoes—more food than we've seen in weeks combined.

Tobin doesn't wait for permission. He grabs his spoon and dives in with the desperation of the truly starved, gravy dripping down his chin as he devours each bite. Lysa follows suit, her small hands trembling slightly as she lifts the heavy spoon.