Page 62 of Dark Elf Makes Five

I move to her side, studying the scrap of material with growing understanding.

"What is it?"

"Lysa's skirt." Her voice emerges as little more than a whisper, thick with emotion she's fighting to control. "It's from Lysa's skirt. The blue one with the small flowers embroidered around the hem—I mended a tear in it just last week near the left seam. She was wearing it yesterday with her brown stockings and the white shirt that used to be mine."

The certainty in her voice leaves no room for doubt. She knows every thread of clothing her siblings own, every patch and repair made by her own hands during their years of struggle.

I turn toward the nearest guard, my voice carrying absolute authority.

"Ride back and find Captain Draven. Tell him we've found something and need him here immediately."

The dark elf spurs his equus without hesitation, disappearing back down the path at a gallop that sends mud flying from beneath his mount's hooves.

I help Kessara to her feet, keeping my voice steady despite the surge of hope and fury warring in my chest.

"We're close, Kessara. They were here. We'll find them."

She nods against my shoulder as I lift her back onto the equus, settling her in front of me once more. This time her body molds against mine with desperate trust rather than rigid anxiety.

We continue forward at a careful pace, both of us scanning the ground and surrounding vegetation with new intensity. The guards spread out in a wider formation, their eyes sharp and focused.

"There." One of the men points toward a low bush twenty yards ahead. "Something blue."

Kessara leans forward in the saddle, her breath catching as she spots another small piece of fabric caught on thorny branches.

"And there," she whispers, pointing toward a fallen log where yet another scrap flutters in the morning breeze.

Understanding dawns like sunrise breaking through storm clouds.

"Zerion..." Her voice emerges breathless with wonder and fierce pride. "She's leaving us a trail."

I stare at the evidence scattered before us, equal parts stunned and impressed by the intelligence of an eleven-year-old girl who managed to think clearly enough in the midst of terror to help us find her.

"Clever girl."

33

KESSARA

The warehouse district in Millhaven spreads before us like a graveyard of commerce, empty buildings squatting against the gray morning sky with broken windows that stare like dead eyes. My chest tightens, the silence between us growing heavier than the mist that clings to the abandoned structures.

"Draven will catch up soon," Zerion murmurs against my ear, his voice carrying that steady confidence I've learned to recognize. "When he does, we'll have full strength for whatever comes next."

I nod without really hearing him. My eyes scan every shadow, every doorway, searching for any sign of movement that might lead us to Bran, Lysa, and Tobin. The trail of fabric scraps ended fifteen minutes ago near a crumbling loading dock, and since then we've found nothing.

Nothing at all.

"What if we're too late?" The words escape before I can stop them, raw with the fear I've been fighting to contain. "What if they hurt Lysa for leaving the trail? What if they changed direction after she⁠—"

"Kessara."

Zerion's hand covers mine where it grips the saddle horn, his fingers warm and reassuring despite the chill morning air. But reassurance feels hollow when my siblings could be suffering while we chase ghosts through empty streets.

"What if they're not even here anymore?" I continue, unable to stop the spiral of panic building in my chest. "What if they loaded them onto a ship, or took them north toward the mountains, or⁠—"

"Then we follow them there too."

His matter-of-fact tone should comfort me, but all I can think about is time slipping away like water through my fingers. Every moment we spend searching is another moment those bastards have with my family.