Page 38 of His Emotional Support Snack

He reaches into the bed, his clawed fingers wrapping roughly around Kalan’s small arm.

The boy screams, a high, terrified shriek that pierces straight through the haze in my brain.

"Quiet, abomination." Zatori yanks the child from the pillows, lifting him into the air by one arm. Kalan thrashes, his tiny boots kicking uselessly against the elder lord’s iron breastplate. "Your blood will serve The Serpent well. A minor offering, but enough to solidify my claim."

"Put him down."

The words scrape from my throat, a ragged, wet gasp.

I drag myself up onto my knees. The movement pulls the glass shards deeper into my back, a blinding, tearing agony that forces a whimper through my clenched teeth. The silver magic in my veins flickers, attempting to seal the dozens of lacerations, but the trauma is too extensive. My blood continues to pour, soaking into the knees of my linen trousers.

My right hand gropes blindly over the shattered mirror fragments littering the floor. My fingers close around a long, jagged shard of silver-backed glass.

I squeeze the makeshift blade. The sharp edges slice into my palm, adding to the crimson smear, but the pain anchors me. It clears the dizzying fog.

Zatori turns his head, his slit pupils narrowing as he looks down at me.

"Stubborn livestock," he sneers, his tail shifting restlessly over the rug. "Zuirvih always possessed a tragic weakness for strays. He believes your blood is a permanent shield. He forgets that humans break so easily."

He tightens his grip on Kalan. The boy’s crying hitches, his face turning pale as the claws dig into his delicate skin.

I do not look at the blood pooling around my knees. I do not acknowledge the cold, numbing sensation creeping up my legs. I focus entirely on the pulse beating rapidly at the base of Zatori’s ash-grey throat. The vulnerability exposed just above the rim of his breastplate.

I stagger to my feet. The room spins, a dark vignette creeping into my field of vision.

I raise the shard of glass, squaring my shoulders, locking my stance. I will not cower. I will not beg. I am the matriarch of a shattered bloodline, and I will force this monster to choke on his own arrogance before he takes my son.

"Take one more step toward the door," I whisper, the promise thick with my own blood. "And I will cut your throat."

24

ZUIRVIH

The stone spiral staircase blurs beneath my boots.

The silver cure rushing through my veins demands velocity. It burns with a cold, relentless fire, pushing the physical limits of my Khuzuth physiology. I do not feel the weight of my armor. I do not feel the exhaustion of the courtyard slaughter. I feel only the sudden, terrifying absence of the magical wards I placed over the high tower.

The scent of crushed lilies and stale copper reaches me before I clear the final landing.

I hit the corridor, my longsword drawn. The heavy iron doors to the master suite are missing, the hinges sheared clean off the stone frame. Wood splinters and twisted metal litter the polished marble. The acrid smoke of Serpent dampeners curls through the ruined threshold, choking the air.

I step into the suite.

The room is a war zone. The massive, silver-framed mirror covering the eastern wall is shattered, the glass glittering across the rug like a million jagged teeth. Vesper, the Batlaz, lies in a crumpled, unmoving heap near the vanity, his chest barely rising.

Then, I see her.

Esme stands amid the ruined glass.

Her leather tunic is sliced in a dozen places, the fabric soaked in a rapidly expanding dark stain. Blood pours from a vicious gash on her temple, painting the pale skin of her cheek a horrifying crimson. She sways on her feet, the silver, Wildspont magic in her veins flickering weakly, struggling to heal the catastrophic trauma. Yet, her stance remains wide. Her chin is raised. In her right hand, she grips a jagged shard of mirror glass, the sharp edge cutting into her own palm.

A primal, violent snap echoes in my skull.

The last vestige of the civilized, calculating warlord disintegrates. The Deceiver’s mask burns away, leaving only the feral, ancient beast of my bloodline. The sight of her blood—the blood that saved my life, spilling onto the marble floor—ignites a rage so pure, so catastrophic, it threatens to rip my own chest open.

My eyes blaze, the chaotic magic surging upward, illuminating the smoke-filled room with a blinding, lethal glow.

Zatori slithers in the room. The elder dark elf abandons his bipedal illusion, opting for the massive, emerald-scaled serpentine tail. It is a grotesque physical cost—a permanent mutation of his Khuzuth biology warped by decades of channeling forbidden, black-covenant spells and the soul-rotting magic of the Serpent. The tail stands as a heavy, monstrous monument to the price he willingly paid for ultimate power.