Page 65 of Dark Elf Makes Five

"Course, we'd have to rough them up a bit first. Buyers like them docile, and that oldest boy's got too much fight in him. But a few days in the cells usually sorts that out."

Behind me, I can feel the tension radiating from my guards. They know what those words mean, understand the implications as clearly as I do. The only thing keeping them motionless is discipline and the knowledge that premature action could endanger the children.

But that discipline has limits. And mine are rapidly approaching their breaking point.

I raise my hand, fingers spread in the signal my guards know by heart. The office erupts into controlled chaos as we storm through the door, boots thundering against rotted floorboards.

The lean man spins toward us, hand flying to his belt, but Fendrin's blade finds his throat before he can draw steel. The broader one lunges for a cudgel leaning against the wall, only to meet Baldraw's fist with his jaw. The crack of bone breaking echoes through the cramped space like a branch snapping in winter wind.

"Down," I bark, and both men collapse as my guards apply pressure to the precise points that turn defiance into compliance.

Within moments, rope binds their wrists behind their backs, the knots tight enough to cut circulation. They'll live, but comfort isn't among my concerns right now.

The children.

Three small figures sit bound to wooden stools in the corner, burlap sacks pulled over their heads and secured with rough twine around their necks. The sight hits me with such force I'm entirely stilled for a heartbeat, rage and revulsion warring in my chest until I can barely breathe.

Animals. These men are worse than animals.

I cross to them in three swift strides, my hands already working at the twine around the nearest sack. The knots are crude but tight, meant to stay secure while allowing just enough air to keep their cargo alive.

He immediately jerks away from me, his bound hands straining against the rope.

"Get away from me, you dirty elven bastard!"

His voice cracks with exhaustion and fear, but the defiance burns bright in his green eyes. Even beaten and terrified, he's still trying to protect his sisters.

The sack comes free, and recognition floods his features. The fight drains from his shoulders like water from a broken bucket. Scrapes cover his left cheek, purple bruises bloom around his right eye, and his lower lip is split and swollen. His hands, when I see them, bear the marks of someone who fought back—knuckles scraped raw, fingernails torn.

"Lord Zerion?"

I work at the ropes binding his wrists, my fingers steady despite the fury coursing through my veins. The moment his hands come free, he throws his arms around my neck with desperate strength.

"You came."

His voice trembles, and I can feel him fighting tears against my shoulder. Thirteen years old and trying so hard to be the man he thinks his family needs.

"I'd have to be dead otherwise, lad."

My own voice sounds rough, dry, emotion threatening to crack the control I've maintained for decades. I clear my throat and move to free Lysa, whose sack reveals tear-streaked cheeks and wide, frightened eyes. Then Tobin, who immediately reaches for his siblings the moment his hands are unbound.

Each child bears evidence of their captivity—rope burns on their wrists, dirt ground into their clothes, the hollow look that comes from hours of terror. But they're alive. Breathing. Whole.

That will have to be enough for now.

"Can you walk?" I ask, helping Lysa to her feet.

She nods, though her legs shake like a newborn foal's. Bran immediately moves to support her, his protective instincts intact despite everything he's endured.

We move toward the office door, my guards flanking the children while I lead them back through the maze of rotting cargo. The warehouse feels different now—less threatening, more like the tomb it's always been. Just a few more steps to reach Kessara, to complete this nightmare and take them all home.

"Not so fast."

The voice pushes through the musty air like a blade, stopping us dead in our tracks. I turn, my hand already moving to my sword hilt, and my blood turns to ice in my veins.

A third man stands twenty paces away, one arm wrapped around Kessara's throat while his other hand presses a knife to the pale skin of her neck. Blood already stains her face, dripping down her lips and chin, and her hazel eyes burn with rage despite the blade at her throat.

I’d forgotten about the last mercenary. Blackwater—Paqui Blackwater.