Page 54 of Dark Elf Makes Five

Draven matches my movement, his hand instinctively dropping to the sword at his hip. The veteran soldier's face has gone pale beneath his weathered features, understanding dawning in his dark eyes with the same horrible clarity that now floods my mind.

We race toward the door together, our boots pounding against stone floors as we sprint through corridors that suddenly feel endless. Lightning illuminates the windows in stark white flashes, revealing the storm's continued assault on the estate grounds.

The realization hits me like a painful blow to the chest, stealing what little breath I have left as we run.

I was wrong. Completely, catastrophically wrong.

They were never after Kessara.

They were after the children.

And now I may be too late.

29

KESSARA

The final piece of silverware clicks against the polished oak as I set the last fork in its proper place. The dining hall gleams under the chandelier's warm light, every surface reflecting the care Mrs. Aldren and I have put into preparing the evening meal. The storm outside makes the manor feel like a fortress of warmth and safety, though the constant rumble of thunder keeps my nerves on edge.

I smooth my hands down my apron and turn toward the older elven woman arranging fresh flowers in the center vase. Her silver hair catches the light as she adjusts a particularly stubborn stem with the precision of someone who has been managing household details for decades.

"Mrs. Aldren, have the children come in yet?"

She pauses in her flower arranging, her weathered fingers still holding the wayward bloom. A frown creases her lined face as she glances toward the garden doors, where rain now pelts the glass with increasing violence.

"Not yet, dear." Her voice carries the disapproval of someone who has raised enough children to know better. "Those little ones will catch their death if they stay out there much longer. Mark my words, they'll all be sniffling and coughing by morning."

The knot in my stomach tightens as I follow her gaze toward the doors. When I gave them permission to play outside, the sky had been merely overcast with the promise of rain still hours away. Now the storm rages with a fury that turns peaceful gardens into muddy battlefields.

I cross the dining hall with quick steps, my boots clicking on the stone floor. The brass handles feel cold beneath my palms as I pull the heavy doors open, immediately gasping as wind and rain assault my face like icy needles. The covered porch provides little protection against the storm's violence—droplets spray past the awning to soak my hair and the front of my dress.

"Children!"

My voice disappears into the howling wind before it travels more than a few feet. The garden beyond the porch steps has transformed into a gray blur of swaying trees and sheets of rain so thick I can barely make out the fountain they were racing toward earlier.

I lift one foot to step down onto the rain-slicked stone steps when a cheerful voice stops me.

"Mistress Kessara!"

Jorik appears from the side corridor, his dark hair already damp from whatever errand brought him outside. Despite the chaos of the storm, his face wears its usual pleasant expression, though concern flickers in his brown eyes as he takes in my position at the doorway.

"Please, stay out of this weather. I'll fetch the little lads and lass before they turn into drowned rats."

Relief floods through me at his offer. The zagfer has always been kind to the children, treating them with the same gentle patience he shows everyone in the household.

"Thank you, Jorik. They were racing to the fountain and back—you know how they get when they're excited about something."

He nods with the understanding smile of someone who has watched children test every boundary they encounter. "Aye, little ones never think the rain will actually catch them. I'll have them inside and dried off before you can blink."

Without another word, he plunges down the steps and into the storm's fury. I watch his figure grow smaller as he jogs along the same gravel path where I last saw Bran leading his siblings in their ridiculous competition. The rain swallows him within moments, leaving only the impression of movement in the gray chaos beyond.

I retreat from the doorway but remain on the covered porch, my fingers twisting together as minutes stretch like hours. The storm shows no signs of weakening—if anything, the wind seems to grow stronger with every passing moment, sending debris skittering across the courtyard stones.

My feet begin wearing a path along the porch boards as anxiety builds within me like a living thing with claws.

When Jorik emerges from the garden alone, his clothes plastered to his lean frame and his dark hair dripping streams down his face, something cold and vicious coils in my gut like a serpent made of ice.

"You're certain they went to the fountain?"