Page 13 of His Emotional Support Snack

They are already inside.

Adrenaline floods my system, a violent, metallic jolt that banishes the lingering exhaustion of the night. I do not scream. A street survivor does not waste oxygen on noise.

My bare feet slide across the rug. I lunge for the obsidian side table. A solid silver candelabra rests next to a stack of parchment, five ornate prongs stretching upward like a metallic claw. My fingers wrap around the thick, cold stem. The object grounds me, offering a lethal, bludgeoning weight.

I pivot, throwing myself between the crib and the balcony. I widen my stance, planting my feet firmly into the woven rug, raising the silver weapon across my chest.

The glass doors swing open.

The storm winds from the harbor rush into the nursery, extinguishing the meager candles and sending the silk draperies thrashing wildly. Three figures step over the threshold. They move with that same sickening, liquid grace from the Lowtown alleys. Ash-grey skin. Iron-dark armor etched with the coiled, venomous iconography of The Serpent. Emerald scales gleam along their bracers.

Zatori’s assassins. They bypassed the alarms. They bypassed the Miou.

They raise their twin daggers. The curved blades drip with a glowing, bilious green liquid that hisses as it hits the floorboards.

Vesper unleashes a roar that shakes the plaster from the ceiling.

The Batlaz launches across the room, a blur of muscle and feral fury. He slams into the lead assassin with the force of a falling boulder. The dark elf goes down, his armor crunching under the impact. Vesper’s jaws snap shut over the assassin's shoulder, tearing through the emerald scales and ash-grey flesh in a spray of dark, steaming blood. The intruder screams, thrashing against the beast, his venomed daggers clattering uselessly against the stone. With a sickening crunch, Vesper shakes the male violently, snapping his neck before tossing his limp, lifeless body over the open balcony railing into the dark harbor drop below.

The remaining two assassins do not flinch. They do not turn to aid their comrade. Their eyes lock onto the crib.

The second assassin lunges.

He covers the distance in two impossibly long strides, bypassing the snarling Batlaz entirely. The green-tipped dagger arcs downward, aimed directly at the bundle of blankets sheltering my sleeping boy.

"No!"

I throw myself forward, intercepting the strike. I swing the silver candelabra in a desperate, upward arc, aiming for the assassin’s face, but his reflexes are unnatural. He twists, bringing his off-hand blade down in a vicious slash.

The steel bites into the flesh of my left forearm.

The pain is instant and catastrophic. The venom acts like boiling acid injected straight into the vein. My muscles seize, the candelabra nearly slipping from my grip as the green poison sears through my bloodstream, aiming straight for my heart. I stumble backward, crashing hard against the wooden slats of Kalan’s crib.

The assassin smirks, stepping closer to finish the job.

A sudden, blinding heat erupts from the marrow of my bones.

The pain vanishes. The boiling acid is consumed by a rushing, freezing tide of ancient power.

Radiant, blinding silver light bursts from my skin. The faint, iridescent veins spiderwebbing up my forearms ignite, glowing with the brilliance of a captured star. The Wildspont root. The dormant, raw magic I swallowed as a starving child awakens in the presence of the lethal toxin.

The silver light surges outward, tracing the path of the venom and obliterating it. The green liquid sizzles against my open wound, turning to harmless gray ash before it can reach my heart.

The sudden burst of pure, unadulterated magic floods the nursery, casting sharp, brilliant shadows against the walls.

The assassin freezes. The smirk drops from his aristocratic face, replaced by wide-eyed, paralyzing shock. He stares at the glowing human, his brain failing to process the impossible display of raw magic emanating from an ownerless laborer.

I do not waste the hesitation.

I grip the stem of the candelabra with both hands, my knuckles turning white. Using the momentum of my stance, I drive the five solid silver prongs forward with every ounce of strength I possess.

The blunt metal punches through the narrow gap between the assassin’s high collar and his breastplate.

The impact jars up my arms, jarring my teeth. The silver prongs bury themselves deep into the soft, unprotected flesh of his throat. He chokes, a wet, gurgling sound tearing from his ruined windpipe.

I rip the weapon backward.

Dark, hot blood erupts from the wound, spraying in a violent arc. The thick liquid splatters across my cheeks, dripping down my chin and soaking into the collar of my nightgown. The metallic scent of a fresh kill fills the air. The assassin collapses to his knees, his hands frantically clutching his throat, before pitching forward onto the rug.