Page 31 of His Emotional Support Snack

A ripple of disdain passes through the cluster of women.

"Fascinating." Another lady, draped in silver chains, leans forward, resting her chin on a clawed hand. "And the master of the house? It is rumored he keeps you locked in his private suite. Does the beast grow tiresome, keeping a mere laborer in his bed? Or do you possess some... unique trick learned in the slums?"

The insult is designed to draw blood. A public humiliation to shatter the facade.

I set the fork down, resting my hands flat on the polished bone table. "The lord of the house takes what he desires. I do not question his preferences. I suggest you extend him the same courtesy, lest he mistake your curiosity for insubordination."

The lady in silver recoils, her ash-grey cheeks flushing a dark, angry violet. A human threatening a Khuzuth noble with the wrath of a warlord. The audacity stifles the conversation, plunging our end of the table into an icy, hostile silence.

I do not look down. I keep my chin raised, surveying the length of the hall.

My street-trained instincts scan the shadows, the servants, the subtle shifts in posture among the guards lining the walls. A survivor maps the exits. A survivor watches the hands.

Near one end of the table, Zuirvih engages in a tense, quiet negotiation with a Serpent faction commander. His back is straight, his demeanor radiating an arrogant, untouchable boredom.

A Zagfer servant glides out from the alcove behind him.

The servant wears the standard gray robes of the laborer caste, carrying a fresh crystal decanter of dark ruby wine. The man’s movements are slightly too rigid. The shoulders lock tight. A faint sheen of sweat coats the servant’s pale brow.

The Zagfer leans over Zuirvih’s shoulder to refill the empty goblet resting on the table.

As the dark wine splashes against the crystal, the servant’s left wrist snaps in a sharp, practiced twitch.

A sliver of pale white powder falls from the cavernous sleeve of the gray robe, dropping straight into the swirling liquid. The substance dissolves instantly, leaving no trace, altering neither the color nor the consistency of the vintage.

My lungs freeze.

The oxygen halts in my throat. I do not jump from my chair. I do not scream a warning. An outburst will result in immediate execution for disrupting a high council gathering. Zatori waits for an excuse to strike.

I lock my gaze onto Zuirvih.

He does not look my way. He continues speaking to the commander, his hand lifting, fingers brushing the stem of the poisoned goblet.

I raise my left hand from the table, lifting my elbow slightly. I press my thumb against the gold cuff at my wrist, tapping the metal twice in rapid succession. I drop my hand, dragging my thumbnail across the velvet collar at my throat.

The subtle, practiced signal. Threat. Poison.

Across the vast expanse of polished bone, Zuirvih’s eyes flick toward me. The movement is infinitesimal. A microsecond, hidden beneath the sweeping motion of turning his head to address another noble.

He caught it.

I lower my hands to my lap, my fingernails digging sharp, bloody crescents into my own palms.

Zuirvih wraps his leather-clad fingers around the stem of the crystal goblet. He lifts the glass, bringing the rim inches from his lips. Zatori sits three chairs away, leaning forward, the green glow in his eyes brightening with predatory anticipation. The elder lord’s clawed fingers grip the table, waiting for the dark elf warlord to swallow the toxin.

Zuirvih pauses.

He turns his head, offering a mocking, razor-sharp smile to the Serpent commander across from him.

"A fascinating proposal," Zuirvih purrs, his voice carrying effortlessly over the low hum of the hall.

He sweeps his free hand outward in a grand, careless gesture of dismissal. The back of his armored knuckles strikes the base of the crystal goblet.

The glass tips.

The dark ruby wine spills across the polished bone table, rushing toward Zatori’s resting hands.

Before the liquid can stain the table, a violent crackle of purple static erupts from Zuirvih’s fingertips. The magic arcs downward, striking the spilled wine. The interaction is instantaneous. The pale powder hidden within the vintage acts as a catalyst.