Page 50 of Dark Elf Makes Five

"And if she attempts to leave town?"

The question hangs in the stale tavern air. Part of me wants to order immediate action—confront Selmyra, demand explanations, end this threat before it fully manifests. But decades of noble intrigue have taught me patience.

"Follow at a distance. No interference unless she approaches the estate directly."

The taller spy shifts in his chair, fingers drumming against the scarred wood. "About our compensation..."

His companion nods toward the leather pouch still resting on the table. "Standard rates, as agreed."

I reach into my coat and withdraw a heavy sack that clinks with the unmistakable weight of gold. The sound draws brief attention from nearby tables before conversations resume. I place it between us with deliberate care, the leather bulging with enough coin to keep these men comfortable for months.

"Your discretion is worth considerably more than standard rates."

The seated spy tests the weight, his weathered face betraying nothing as he estimates the contents. "Generous, my lord. Very generous."

"Generosity ensures loyalty." I lean back slightly, watching both men process the implications. "Continue your surveillance. Report anything unusual immediately."

The standing operative pockets his share with practiced efficiency. "Understood, my lord. We'll maintain distance but stay close enough to matter."

They rise together, the taller man tucking the information pouch inside his travel cloak. Both move with the unhurried confidence of professionals who understand exactly what they're being paid to accomplish.

"Good hunting, gentlemen."

They nod and make their way toward the tavern entrance, separating naturally as they step into the morning light. One heads toward the market district while the other disappears down a narrow side street. Within moments, they've melted into the flow of common folk going about their daily business.

I remain seated, nursing the vile mead while watching Draven from across the table. His weathered face carries the weight of unspoken concerns, the kind of expression that comes from years of anticipating trouble before it arrives.

Silence hangs between us, filled only by the tavern's background noise—drunken laughter, the scrape of chairs against worn floorboards, the barmaid's weary sighs as she collects empty tankards. Finally, I set down my drink and meet his eyes directly.

"I want the estate gates reinforced."

He nods, already calculating logistics in that methodical way that makes him invaluable. "And when Kessara demands explanations?"

I drain the last of the terrible mead, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste. "She'll receive them when I decide the time is right."

Draven studies my face for a minute. "You believe Lady Dareth means genuine harm?"

I don't know what Selmyra is trying to accomplish—whether she intends kidnapping, intimidation, or something far worse. But the image of those mercenaries meeting with her in the shadows tells me everything about her desperation.

"I know I'll stop at nothing to protect my family."

27

KESSARA

The kitchen is in chaos as Bran and Tobin tear around the massive oak kitchen table, wooden spoons raised like battle standards while Lysa shrieks with delighted terror. Steam rises from the pot I'm stirring, carrying the rich scent of beef and herbs—a meal that would have fed us for a week in our old cottage.

"You'll never escape the dreaded spoon knights!" Bran declares, his voice cracking on the dramatic pronouncement as he lunges toward his sister.

Lysa dodges behind a flour barrel, her dark curls flying. "Help! Someone save me from these terrible villains!"

Tobin brandishes his wooden weapon with eight-year-old ferocity. "Surrender now or face the wrath of our mighty wooden swords!"

I shake my head, fighting back laughter as I adjust the flame beneath the sauce. The children have grown bold in these walls, their voices echoing through rooms that once knew only whispered conversations and careful footsteps. It's a sound I never thought I'd hear again after our parents died.

A chill runs down my spine when the sound of Zerion's voice fills the room, cutting through the children's laughter like a blade through silk.

"What do you think you're doing, Kessara?"