Page 9 of Dark Elf Makes Five

A hand clamps down on my wrist, yanking me away from the dress and making me stumble.

"Thief!"

The merchant—a sharp-faced woman with graying hair pulled into a severe knot—grips my arm with surprising strength. Her eyes burn with righteous fury as she drags me toward the center of the shop.

"I know you and your runt siblings. You think I'm fool enough to let you steal from my shop?"

"I'm not stealing anything." I pull the coin purse from my belt, holding it where she can see the Morvath crest embossed in the leather. "I have money."

She scoffs, releasing my wrist with a dismissive shove. "You wouldn't be able to afford that dress anyway. Best stick to the rags section where you belong instead of whoring yourself for money."

The words are nearly as bad as a slap to the face. Heat spreads across my cheeks as I stare at her sneering face, my throat closing around any response. My hands shake as I set the children's clothes back on their pegs.

I walk out of the shop without another word.

Captain Draven straightens when he sees me approaching empty-handed, his brow furrowing with confusion.

"Lord Morvath won't be happy that you've disobeyed his orders."

I say nothing, climbing into the carriage and pulling the door shut behind me.

6

ZERION

Ipush open the door to the room in the servants' quarters, the hinges creaking softly in the afternoon quiet. Three small figures scramble across the wooden floor like startled mice, pressing themselves against the far wall with wide eyes fixed on my form filling the doorway.

The eldest boy—Bran—shifts his thin frame protectively in front of his younger siblings. His green eyes hold the same wariness I've seen in cornered animals, calculating whether fight or flight offers better odds of survival.

"It's alright." My voice holds the same measured tone I use when approaching skittish equus.

The smallest child, a girl with tangled dark curls, peeks around her brother's shoulder. "Where's Kessa?"

"She went to the market." I step further into the room, noting how they flinch at my movement. "She'll return soon."

Lysa—that's her name, I recall from Halvren's reports—detaches herself from the huddle against the wall. Her bare feet pad across the floor with surprising boldness, small fingers wrapping around my much larger hand with complete trust.

"I'm hungry."

The simple declaration hits harder than any accusation. Children shouldn't need to announce their hunger with such matter-of-fact resignation, as if stating a permanent condition rather than a temporary discomfort.

"You can come to the dining room. There's food waiting."

Bran moves faster than I expect, snatching Lysa away from me and positioning his lanky frame between us like a shield. His jaw sets with stubborn determination that mirrors his sister's defiance.

"We'll wait for Kessa."

The boy's protective instincts are admirable, but misplaced. I let silence stretch between us, ghostly eyes studying his defensive posture. He's too young to carry such responsibility, yet life has given him little choice in the matter.

"You will come to the dining room."

My tone brooks no argument. Authority flows through the words—not cruel, but absolute. These children live under my roof now.

Bran's shoulders slump in defeat. He nods once, gathering his siblings with careful hands before following me down the corridor.

The dining room's long table already holds three place settings at the far end—simple pottery bowls filled with warm stew, fresh bread torn into child-sized portions, and cups of milk that steam faintly in the cool air. I watch them settle into the chairs, their movements cautious but eager.

Lysa reaches for her spoon first, while the middle child—Tobin—sniffs his bowl with scientific curiosity. Bran maintains his vigilant posture even while eating, green eyes tracking my every movement.