Page 57 of Dark Elf Makes Five

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ZERION

The sound that tears from Kessara's throat carves something vital from my chest. In one hundred and sixty-eight years of existence, through wars and betrayals and the slow death of everything I once held dear, I have never heard anguish distilled into such pure, devastating music.

My arms catch her before she strikes the stone, her body folding against mine like a bird with broken wings. The guard's face bleaches white as he realizes what his discovery has done—how the sight of that small, battered shoe has shattered the woman in my arms into pieces sharp enough to draw blood.

"Inside. Now."

I lift Kessara against my chest, her waterlogged dress streaming rivulets across the porch stones. She weighs nothing, lighter than she should be despite the nourishment of recent months. Her frame shakes with violent tremors that have nothing to do with the cold rain plastering her hair to her skull.

The library offers the closest sanctuary, its stone hearth already blazing with warmth that seems insufficient against the ice spreading through my veins. I settle into the leather chair beside the fire, keeping Kessara cradled against me as her sobs rack through both our bodies.

"Fetch a blanket from the hall chest. And find Captain Draven immediately. Tell him to report here with whatever information he has."

"Yes, my lord."

The guard nods and disappears, his armor clanking with the urgency of someone desperate to contribute something useful. Water pools beneath his boots, marking his path across the polished wood floors. His footsteps fade into the manor's depths as I turn my attention to the woman destroying herself against my chest. Her fingers claw at my coat with desperate strength, seeking purchase against grief that threatens to drown us both.

"They'll be found, sweet."

The words feel hollow even as I speak them, inadequate offerings against the magnitude of her terror. Her hazel eyes, usually so sharp and defiant, have gone glassy with shock.

"I should have watched them closer. Should have kept them inside when the storm began."

"This is not your fault."

My voice carries conviction I wish I felt, but doubt gnaws at my certainty like acid. If I had acted sooner against Selmyra's scheming, if I had taken the threats more seriously, if I had protected them properly⁠—

The library doors burst open, rattling the hinges. Draven strides through the entrance, his armor streaming water and his weathered face grim with purpose. The guard follows close behind, clutching a thick wool blanket that he thrusts toward me with trembling hands.

I wrap the fabric around Kessara's shaking form, pulling the edges tight beneath her chin. She burrows deeper against my chest, her breathing shallow and rapid like a cornered animal's.

"Report."

Draven's boots squelch against the floor as he positions himself before the fireplace, his gray-streaked hair plastered to his skull and his expression darker than the storm outside.

"We found the breach, my lord. Southern wall of the orchard, near the old oak grove."

His words land like physical blows, each syllable confirming what I already suspected but hoped against. Someone planned this. Someone waited for the perfect opportunity to strike at the heart of everything I've claimed as mine.

"The wall?"

"Destroyed by magical force. Clean break, precise targeting. Whoever did this knew exactly where to strike and how much power to use."

The methodical nature of the attack sends cold fury spiraling through my chest. This was no crime of opportunity, no random violence born from desperation or greed. Someone studied my defenses, mapped my routines, and chose the moment when the children would be most vulnerable.

"My babies..."

Kessara's broken whisper cuts through my analysis like a blade between ribs. Her voice carries the essence of every nightmare that has ever haunted a parent's sleep, every fear that claws at the edges of protective love.

I tighten my arms around her trembling form, pulling her closer against the inadequate warmth of my body. The scent of rain and terror clings to her skin, mixing with the familiar fragrance that has become as necessary to me as breathing.

"They're alive, sweet. They have to be."

The words taste like ash on my tongue, but I force them out anyway. Hope is all I can offer her now, fragile and desperate as it feels against the evidence mounting around us.

Draven's expression grows grimmer as he continues his report, each detail driving fresh spikes of rage through my composure.