Page 70 of Dark Elf Makes Five

"Kessa!" Lysa launches herself forward, and I drop to my knees to catch all three of them in a crushing embrace.

My heart thunders in my ribs as I hold them tight, breathing in the familiar scent of their hair mixed with the healer's medicinal salves. Real. Solid. Whole.

"Come with me," I whisper against the top of Lysa's head, pulling back just enough to meet each of their gazes. "Right now."

They nod, but confusion flickers across their faces as they pick up on the urgency threading through my voice. The tension I've been fighting to contain must be bleeding through my carefully controlled expression.

We climb the main staircase in silence, their footsteps echoing mine as we head toward Lysa's room. The familiar weight of responsibility settles back onto my shoulders—heavier now, sharpened by the terror of nearly losing them.

I shut the door behind us with a soft click, then turn to face the three most important people in my world. Their expectant faces stare back at me, still marked by their ordeal but trusting me to explain what comes next.

The words stick in my throat for a moment. How do you tell children they have to abandon the first real safety they've ever known?

"We have to leave," I say finally, the words falling like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the careful quiet of the room. "Tonight. All of us. We pack what we can carry and we go."

"What?" Bran's voice cracks with disbelief, the sound raw and startled in a way he'd never normally allow himself. "Leave the estate entirely? But why would we⁠—"

"Is Lord Morvath kicking us out?" Tobin's lower lip begins to tremble, his small hands twisting the hem of his shirt as he asks the question he's clearly been afraid to voice. His wide eyes search my face desperately, looking for reassurance I'm not sure I can give him. "Did we do something bad? Is it because of what happened?"

"No, little one. None of this is because of anything you did." I sink down to his eye level, close enough that he can see the certainty in my expression, and rest my hands gently on his narrow shoulders. I choose my words carefully, the way I always have to with Tobin—direct enough to be honest, soft enough not to break him. "Lord Morvath is powerful. More powerful than anyone else in this province, perhaps more than anyone for miles beyond it. That kind of power means the usual rules don't touch him the same way they touch ordinary people. He's nearly impossible to hurt directly."

Lysa's eyes fill slowly with tears she's fighting hard to blink away, her dark curls falling across her cheek as she looks between me and Bran, already working it out in that sharp, quiet mind of hers. "So people hurt us instead?"

The simple truth of it, spoken in her small voice, makes my chest tighten. "Exactly. As long as we're here, under his protection, we're weapons someone can use against him. Today proved that."

"But we're safe here," Bran protests, his bandaged hand gesturing toward the luxurious room around us. "The guards, the walls⁠—"

"The guards couldn't stop what happened today." The harsh reality cuts through his argument like a blade. "And next time, we might not be so lucky."

Lysa's tears spill over, sliding silently down her cheeks as the full weight of our situation settles over her young shoulders.

I watch something shift behind Bran's eyes—a hardening that transforms his face from boy to man in the space of a heartbeat. His shoulders straighten, pulling back in a way that makes him seem taller despite his thirteen years. The bandaged hand at his side curls into a fist.

"You're right." His voice carries a weight that shouldn't belong to someone his age. "We need to leave."

The words hit me hard. I've done it again—stolen another piece of his childhood, forced him to shoulder burdens that should be mine alone. The guilt crashes over me in waves, but I push it down. This is for the best. It has to be.

Bran turns toward Tobin, his movements sharp and decisive. "Come on. We need to pack our things."

"But I don't want to—" Tobin starts, his voice small and confused.

"Now, Tobin." The authority in Bran's tone brooks no argument. He places a protective hand on his younger brother's shoulder, guiding him toward the door. "Quickly."

They disappear into the hallway, leaving me alone with Lysa's muffled sobs. She's curled into herself on the edge of the bed, shoulders shaking as tears stream down her face.

"I like it here," she whispers against her knees. "I don't want to leave, Kessa. Don't want to go back to the way it was."

My heart shatters. I sink onto the bed beside her, gathering her small form into my arms as my own tears threaten to spill over. She fits perfectly against my chest, all sharp elbows and tangled curls that smell like the lavender soap from the estate baths.

"I know, little one." My voice cracks despite my efforts to keep it steady. "I know you like it here."

"The bed is so warm," she hiccups into my shoulder. "And there's always food. And Master Ramin teaches us about faraway places with mountains and oceans."

Each word is a knife twist in my chest. "We'll figure something out. I'll take more jobs, work harder. Everything will be okay."

The lies taste bitter on my tongue. I'll never be able to give them this—the security, the education, the simple luxury of never wondering where their next meal will come from. The doubt settles like lead in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

But we start packing anyway. I press Lysa's stuffed thistle into her arms—the ratty thing she's had since before our parents died, its fabric worn smooth by countless nights of desperate clutching. Her fingers close around it instinctively.