Page 8 of Dark Elf Makes Five

KESSARA

The wagon lurches to a halt, wheels grinding against cobblestone with a sound like grinding teeth. Through the small window, I catch glimpses of market stalls and shopfronts—more commerce in one street than our entire village sees in a month. The carriage rocks as Captain Draven climbs down from the coach's bench, his boots hitting stone with military precision.

The door swings open, and I step out onto familiar ground. My worn boots feel clumsy against the smooth cobbles, and I resist the urge to steady myself against the carriage door. The market bustles around us—merchants calling out prices, children weaving between carts, the rich scent of fresh bread mixing with leather and wool.

Every face that turns my way makes my shoulders tighten. I'm a stray cat wandering into a dog's territory, waiting for someone to throw stones or chase me back where I belong. But the stares remain just that—curious glances rather than hostile glares.

A stall displaying rows of white and yellow candles catches my eye. The merchant, a plump woman with flour-dusted aprons, arranges her wares with practiced efficiency.

"How much for a full flat?" I ask, nodding toward the wooden tray holding two dozen candles.

She looks up from her work, taking in my patched dress and cautious posture. "Twenty-five dalers, dear. Quality beeswax, those. Burn clean and long."

Twenty-five dalers. The amount would have fed my siblings for a fortnight. My fingers find the leather purse, and I will myself to open it despite every instinct screaming that this is wrong—that I shouldn't be spending a lord's money on luxuries we've never afforded.

The faint gold coins spill into my palm, catching afternoon sunlight. I count out the payment with careful precision, placing each daler on her wooden counter.

The merchant's eyes widen as they land on the embossed leather of the purse. Her gaze darts from the intricate Morvath crest—a twisted tree with deep roots—to the carriage behind me, then to Captain Draven standing at attention beside it. The same emblem adorns both the carriage door and his armor's breastplate.

"Oh my," she breathes, suddenly bustling with renewed energy. "Of course, of course. Finest candles in the market, these are. Lord Morvath has excellent taste."

I take the flat of candles without comment, their weight solid and reassuring in my arms. The merchant bobs her head repeatedly as I turn away, her voice following me with obsequious gratitude.

"Thank you, miss! Please give His Lordship my regards!"

The carriage door clicks shut behind me as I settle the candles on the opposite seat. In the window, I watch Captain Draven's weathered face scan the crowd with professional alertness. His grey-streaked hair catches the breeze, and something about his patient stance—like a guard dog content to wait—makes guilt twist in my stomach.

I climb back out of the carriage, approaching him with careful steps.

"Captain Draven."

He turns toward me, dark eyes alert but not unkind. "What is it?"

"I wanted to apologize." The words taste strange on my tongue—when was the last time I apologized to anyone in authority? "You shouldn't be stuck babysitting me through market errands. This can't be what you signed up for when you took the position, I'm sure."

His mouth quirks upward at one corner—not quite a smile, but close. "I've done worse duties than escorting a woman to buy candles."

"Still. It feels..." I search for the right word. "Wasteful. You're a soldier, not a nursemaid."

"Lord Morvath's orders are Lord Morvath's orders." He adjusts his sword belt with practiced ease. "Besides, the market's more interesting than standing guard over empty hallways."

"I should get the clothes now." I glance toward the row of storefronts lining the market square. "I'll be quick."

Captain Draven's weathered face shifts into something resembling paternal concern. "Be mindful and modest with Lord Morvath's coin. Don't go spending it like a spoiled child who's never seen money before."

A laugh escapes me—soft, genuine. "I would never take advantage like that. Wait here while I find something suitable."

He nods once, settling back into his watchful stance.

The storefronts blur together as I walk the cobbled street—bakeries, metalwork shops, a cobbler displaying leather boots in neat rows. A clothing merchant's window catches my attention, displaying simple dresses and children's tunics arranged on wooden forms. The painted sign above reads "Brennan's Fine Clothing" in faded blue letters.

The shop's interior smells of wool and lavender sachets. Bolts of fabric line the walls in orderly rows, and clothing hangs from wooden pegs sorted by size and purpose. I navigate toward the children's section, running my fingers along small tunics and sturdy trousers that would fit Bran, Lysa, and Tobin perfectly.

The fabric feels foreign under my hands—soft cotton instead of rough hemp, seams that won't fray after a single washing. I select practical pieces: dark colors that won't show dirt, simple cuts that won't tear during play. The weight of the coins in my purse makes each choice feel surreal.

Moving to the women's section, I search for something equally modest. Most dresses hang beyond my reach or my comfort—too fine, too delicate for someone who scrubs floors and tends fires. But one catches my eye: a simple white dress with long sleeves and a high neckline. Clean lines, no unnecessary frills. Beautiful in its simplicity.

My fingers brush the hem, and I imagine wearing something so pristine. Then reality crashes back—white fabric shows every stain, every smudge of ash or drop of kitchen grease. A dress like this would be ruined within hours of real work.