Page 60 of Dark Elf Makes Five

Each muscle in my body coils with the desperate need to move, to act, to do something other than sit here while my siblings remain lost in the darkness. I twist in the saddle to face him, my hands fisting in the fabric of his coat.

"We should all go. Every second we waste⁠—"

"Is a second we spend ensuring we don't walk into an ambush." His ghostly eyes capture mine, steady and implacable. "They took children to draw us out, sweet. Rushing blindly forward serves their purpose, not ours."

The logic burns like acid in my throat, caustic and bitter, but I swallow the protest clawing its way up from my chest with desperate, grasping fingers. He's right. Of course he's right. Every tactical bone in his body, honed by a century and a half of existence, knows how to approach this kind of danger. But knowing that, accepting the cold truth of his words, doesn't make the waiting any less excruciating—doesn't stop my hands from trembling where they grip his coat, doesn't slow the wild hammering of my heart against my ribs.

Draven wheels his mount around with practiced efficiency, the equus responding to his command before he's even finished the motion. He's already selecting riders with quick, economical gestures, his face set in grim lines. "You heard Lord Morvath. Move."

The men respond instantly, peeling off in different directions with the precision of soldiers who've trained together for years. I watch them disappear into the darkness, each one taking a piece of my desperate hope with them.

Thale dismounts with fluid grace that seems almost inhuman in its smoothness, his boots touching the ground without so much as a whisper of sound. He checks his weapons with methodical care—knife at his belt, short sword across his back, something that might be a small crossbow tucked into his coat. Then he's moving, melting into the undergrowth like a shadow given purpose, like darkness returning to its natural home. Within seconds, I can't see even a hint of his passage, as if the forest has simply swallowed him whole.

The silence that follows his departure presses against my eardrums with physical weight, oppressive and suffocating. It's broken only by the restless shifting of equus, their nervous whickering and stamping hooves, and the distant, mournful drip of water from rain-soaked branches somewhere in the canopy above us. Each drop sounds like a clock ticking down, measuring out seconds we can't afford to lose.

They're okay. The mantra loops through my mind with desperate, clinging intensity, a prayer to gods I've never believed in. They're okay. They're okay. They're okay. Terrified, yes. Confused and scared and probably crying in the darkness. But okay. Alive. Breathing. Waiting for me to find them. They have to be okay because the alternative—the thought of Lysa's wide hazel eyes going dark, of Tobin's mischievous grin fading forever, of Bran's protective shoulders going still—will shatter me into pieces too small to ever reassemble, will break something fundamental in my soul that can never be repaired.

Zerion's hand finds mine where it grips his coat, his fingers warm and callused as they cover my trembling knuckles. The simple contact anchors me when panic threatens to drag me under again.

Time stretch like hours before Thale emerges from the darkness, his expression grim in the pale moonlight. "The path's overgrown but passable. Easy to track the wagon through the brush." He pauses, and my heart sinks at the hesitation in his voice. "But once it clears the undergrowth, the trail splits. Two directions, both with fresh tracks."

"Damn." The curse slips out, bitter with helplessness.

My chest tightens until each breath feels like drowning. How are we supposed to choose? What if we pick wrong and waste precious time while whoever has them gets further away?

Zerion's arms tighten around me, his voice carrying that unshakeable confidence that has become my lifeline in the storm of fear threatening to consume me.

"We continue to the split, then divide our forces. Draven takes half the men toward the countryside. I'll lead the others toward Millhaven."

The certainty in his tone steadies the wild hammering of my pulse. He speaks like victory is inevitable, like finding Bran, Lysa, and Tobin is simply a matter of following the right steps in the correct order.

And despite everything—despite the terror and uncertainty and the voice in my head screaming that we might already be too late—I believe him.

32

ZERION

The equus beneath us moves with steady precision through the forest path, each hoofbeat measured and deliberate despite the urgency driving us forward. Kessara's body remains rigid against my chest, tension singing through every muscle like a bowstring drawn taut. Her breathing comes in shallow bursts that I can feel against my forearms where they circle her waist.

The anxiety radiating from her is almost tangible, a living thing that writhes between us with desperate energy. Every few seconds, her hands clench and release where they grip my coat, the motion unconscious and repetitive. She scans the darkness ahead with those sharp hazel eyes, searching for any sign of the children who have become the center of her world.

I keep her firmly anchored against me, using my body as a shield against both the elements and the terror threatening to consume her. The warmth of her back pressed to my chest grounds me in ways I don't fully understand, even as my own fury builds with each moment.

The fork appears ahead like a wound carved into the forest floor, two paths diverging into shadows that could hide anything. I draw the equus to a halt where the wagon tracks split, studying the churned mud and broken vegetation with calculating precision.

Draven approaches on my left, his weathered face grim in the pale light filtering through the canopy. Our eyes meet across the space between our mounts, and understanding passes between us without words. Years of service have taught him to read my intentions even when I don't voice them aloud.

His jaw tightens with obvious displeasure at the prospect of separating, but he gives a sharp nod of acceptance. The children take precedence over his protective instincts regarding my safety. He knows this situation leaves no room for argument or the usual formalities that govern our interactions.

"The left path leads toward the countryside," he reports, his voice carrying military crispness despite the early hour. "Fresh tracks, recent passage. If they're moving the children to a safe house outside the region..."

"Take half the men and follow it." I keep my tone level, though violence coils beneath the surface like smoke from a banked fire. "I'll lead the others toward Millhaven. Someone in town will have seen them pass."

Draven's mount shifts restlessly beneath him, picking up on the tension that radiates from both riders. He glances once more at Kessara, then back to me with reluctant acceptance.

"Yes, my lord."

Within moments, he's selected his men and disappeared down the left fork, hoofbeats fading into the distance. The remaining guards close ranks around us as we turn toward the right path, the one that winds steadily toward the outskirts of town.