Page 73 of Dark Elf Makes Five

KESSARA

Ipush through the cabin door, wiping dirt and sweat from my palms on the rough fabric of my apron. The soil outside clings stubbornly under my fingernails—a reminder of the three hours I spent breaking ground with nothing but a rusty hoe and sheer determination. My back aches from the unfamiliar angle of the work, muscles protesting after months of softer duties within the estate walls.

The somana seeds rest in neat rows now, along with the frisse and burgona I managed to purchase with the last of our coin. If the weather holds, we'll have fresh vegetables in a fortnight. Enough to fill our bellies and preserve for the lean months ahead.

I can do this. I read enough books on canning and preservation during those quiet afternoons in the estate library. The knowledge sits fresh in my memory, detailed instructions on salt ratios and proper storage that will serve us well through winter.

The cabin feels smaller than I remember, cramped and dim after the spacious rooms we left behind. My three siblings huddle around the rickety wooden table, their faces drawn with the particular sullenness that children master when the world disappoints them.

"The garden's planted," I announce, forcing brightness into my voice that I don't entirely feel. "We'll have proper vegetables soon enough."

Bran doesn't look up from where he's carving meaningless patterns into the table surface with his knife. The blade scrapes against the wood with sharp, irritating sounds that set my teeth on edge.

"Wonderful," he mutters. "Fresh vegetables to go with our stale bread and empty pantry."

"Don't be dramatic." I untie my apron and hang it on the wooden peg by the door. "We have enough supplies to last until the harvest comes in."

Lysa finally lifts her head, and the accusation in her hazel eyes hits me painfully. "We had warm beds at the estate. And Master Ramin was teaching me to read properly."

"You can still read." The words come out sharper than I intend. "I'll continue your lessons."

"It's not the same." Her voice rises with the particular pitch that signals an impending tantrum. "You don't know all the stories he knew. You can't teach us about history and mathematics and⁠—"

"I know enough."

The words are biting. I force myself to take a breath.

"This is for the best." I cross my arms and plant my feet, adopting the stance that has ended a thousand arguments over the years. "We're safer here. We're free here."

"Free to starve," Bran says without looking up from his carving.

"Free to be targets," Lysa adds, her voice cracking with tears she refuses to shed.

The two of them lock eyes across the table, and I recognize the dangerous spark that flares between them. They're looking for someone to blame, and in the absence of our real enemies, they'll settle for each other.

"That's enough." I step between them before the argument can escalate. "We're family. We stick together, no matter⁠—"

The cabin door explodes inward, tearing it from its hinges.

"Zerion!"

The chorus of voices hits me. All three children abandon their sullen poses and rush toward the towering figure filling our doorframe. Their faces transform from misery to pure joy in the span of a heartbeat.

Lysa reaches him first, her small arms wrapping around his waist as she buries her face against the dark fabric of his coat. Tobin crashes into his legs, knocking over a smaller man, while Bran—my serious, cautious Bran—actually grins as he approaches more slowly.

Zerion's arms come around them with surprising gentleness, his large hands smoothing over Lysa's tangled curls and squeezing Tobin's shoulder. The controlled mask he usually wears has cracked completely, revealing something raw and vulnerable beneath.

"Calm down, all of you." His voice holds the familiar note of authority, but warmth underlies each word. He squeezes Bran's shoulder again. "Well done, lad."

Bran beams up at him, practically vibrating with pride. "You got my message?"

"Indeed." Zerion's grey eyes find mine over the children's heads, and something dangerous flickers in their depths. "The Thornefields are exceptionally good at leaving a trail of clues."

He winks at Lysa, who dissolves into giggles that echo through our cramped cabin like silver bells. The sound cuts through my chest with surgical precision.

"Come back here." I snap my fingers and point toward the table. "All of you, right now."

None of them move. They remain clustered around Zerion like moths drawn to flame, their faces turned up toward him with the kind of adoration that used to be reserved for me alone.