Page 6 of Dark Elf Makes Five

Even Bran, despite his pride, can't resist the pull of genuine sustenance. He eats with forced restraint, trying to maintain dignity while his hollow cheeks work steadily.

Lord Morvath observes us in perfect silence, his own bowl untouched. Those grey eyes miss nothing—the way Tobin hoards bread rolls in his lap, how Lysa carefully saves the largest pieces of meat for last, the protective way Bran positions himself between his siblings and our host.

The only sounds are spoons against ceramic and the soft sighs of satisfaction that escape my siblings with each swallow.

4

ZERION

The ledger's neat columns blur before my eyes as I pretend to review the estate's quarterly accounts. Four days have passed since the human girl began her employment, yet I've caught only fleeting glimpses of her—a flash of dark hair disappearing around a corner, the soft whisper of worn boots on marble stairs, the faint scent of orchard leaves that lingers in rooms after she's cleaned them.

My pen hovers above the parchment, ink threatening to drip and stain the careful calculations. The children remain equally invisible, as if the four of them have mastered the art of moving through my manor like ghosts.

I set down the pen and slump in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight. The afternoon light filters through the tall windows of my study, casting geometric patterns across the Persian rug. Dust motes dance in the golden beams, disturbed by some unseen current.

"Halvren!"

My voice carries through the door with authority. Within moments, the familiar shuffle of the steward's footsteps approaches, followed by a respectful knock.

"Enter."

The door swings open to reveal Halvren's lined face, his expression carefully neutral as he steps into the study. His grey hair is combed neatly despite the late hour, and his black uniform shows not a single wrinkle. Decades of service have taught him to read my moods with uncanny accuracy.

"You asked for me, my lord?"

I gesture toward the chair across from my desk, watching as he settles his aging frame with the careful movements of a man who has felt every one of his sixty-one years.

"The human girl. Kessara." I lean forward, steepling my fingers beneath my chin. "How does she fare in her duties?"

Halvren's weathered hands smooth across his knees, a tell I've learned to recognize when he's choosing his words with particular care.

"She performs her assigned tasks without complaint, my lord. The chambers she tends are spotless, the silver polished to perfection, and she shows remarkable efficiency despite..." He pauses, his grey eyes meeting mine briefly before looking away.

"Despite what?"

"Her physical condition, my lord. Years of inadequate nutrition have left their mark. She tires more easily than the other staff, though she conceals it well. I've observed her pausing to catch her breath between floors, steadying herself against walls."

The image of her hollow cheeks and too-thin wrists flashes through my memory. I'd noted the way her clothes hung loose on her frame that first night, but hearing Halvren's clinical assessment stirs something uncomfortable in my chest.

"Has she requested additional rest periods? Lighter duties?"

"No, my lord." Halvren's response comes swiftly, tinged with what sounds like grudging respect. "If anything, she pushes herself beyond reasonable limits. I've had to order her to stop work on two occasions when exhaustion became apparent."

I rise and move to the window, watching the afternoon shadows lengthen across the manidcured grounds. The orchard wall where I first encountered her stretches in the distance, its stones warm and golden in the dying light.

"And the children? How do they adjust to manor life?"

Halvren shifts behind me, the leather chair creaking softly. When he speaks, his voice holds a note of puzzlement.

"That's where the situation becomes... peculiar, my lord."

I turn from the window, raising an eyebrow. "Peculiar how?"

"I haven't seen them. Not once since that first evening in the dining room." Halvren's fingers drum against his knee, a rare display of agitation. "She keeps them sequestered in her quarters. Takes their meals directly to them, handles their washing and mending personally. The other servants whisper about how strange it is."

"Surely they venture out occasionally. To the kitchens? The gardens?"

"Never, my lord. She guards them with the vigilance of a she-wolf protecting her cubs. When I inquired about their well-being, she assured me they were perfectly content and required no additional accommodations."