Page 45 of His Emotional Support Snack

"Let them wait." Zuirvih dismisses the commander with a flick of his wrist. "Prepare the carriage for midday. We go to the high courts."

Jarek bows again and exits, pulling the doors shut.

Zuirvih turns back to me. He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of dark hair behind my ear, his thumb grazing the spot where the fatal gash used to be.

"The siege is broken, but the war for the bloodline concludes today." Zuirvih presses a lingering kiss to the center of my forehead, the purple magic sparking warmly against my skin. "We walk into the center of their power, Esmeralda. We claim the legacy, and we dare the entire city of Vhoig to try and take it from us."

I grip Kalan tightly, the warmth in my chest flaring into a fierce, unyielding resolve. I am ready.

28

ZUIRVIH

The colossal obsidian doors of the high council hall loom at the end of the sweeping stone corridor.

I do not wait for the heralds to announce our arrival. I lift a single, armored hand. A concentrated pulse of power strikes the towering doors, blasting them inward on their iron hinges. The impact echoes through the cavernous chamber like a thunderclap, silencing the frantic, overlapping arguments of the Khuzuth elite.

I step over the threshold.

The grand hall of Vhoig is an amphitheater of intimidation, carved from the living rock of the high-tier cliffs. The tiered seating climbs the circular walls, packed with the ruling lords and ladies of the city. At the center rests a massive, circular table of polished bone. At one end of the table sits the Sorcerer King, Grymlock Ishiraya, his dark, impassive eyes tracking my approach.

I wear the ceremonial armor of the Tagnadaet house. Midnight-blue plates etched with gold runes, polished to a flawless, mirror-like sheen. My hair is bound tight, cascading over my shoulders. The Marrow-Rot is a ghost of the past. The Deceiver’s magic hums in my veins, a roaring, untethered inferno that drops the temperature in the room by ten degrees.

I do not walk alone.

Esme steps in time with my long strides. Her hand rests firmly in mine. She wears a gown of matching navy silk, the fabric trailing over the polished stone floor. The collar is gone, replaced by a delicate silver chain that highlights the pale, unblemished skin of her throat. The purple and silver sparks of our shared magic pulse faintly beneath the skin of her forearm, a physical declaration of the bond.

She does not lower her eyes. She does not cower beneath the hostile, burning glares of the gathered nobility. She walks into the center of their power with the cold, lethal dignity of a queen claiming her throne.

Commander Jarek flanks us, his armor gleaming. He carries Kalan in his arms. The boy wears the miniature, formal robes of the Tagnadaet heir, his hair a bright beacon in the dim light of the hall. Kalan watches the glowing braziers with wide, curious eyes, entirely oblivious to the political execution about to commence.

A low, buzzing murmur erupts from the tiered seating. Outrage. Disgust. The Khuzuth lords shift in their chairs, pointing clawed fingers at the human female holding the hand of a warlord, at the half-blood child draped in noble colors.

"Tagnadaet!" A lord from the Serpent faction stands, his voice a reedy, indignant shout. "You bring a Lowtown stray and an unregistered abomination into the sacred halls of the high council! This is a violation of⁠—"

I do not let him finish the sentence.

I draw my longsword. The steel rings out, a sharp, singing note that cuts through the rising din. I drive the tip of the blade down into the polished bone table with shattering force.

The stone cracks. A web of fissures spiderwebs outward from the steel, glowing with violent purple light as my magic surges into the table.

The hall falls instantly, terrifyingly silent.

"Lord Zatori is dead." I project the statement, letting the Deceiver’s hypnotic cadence vibrate against the stone walls. "He utilized forbidden Serpent dampeners to breach the Tagnadaet estate. He attempted to assassinate my brother’s heir. I crushed his skull with my bare hands."

A collective, shocked intake of breath ripples through the assembly. The elder lord was a pillar of the faction, a fixture of the council for three centuries.

"The Tagnadaet fortune, the trade routes, and the lower harbor districts belong entirely to me." I release the hilt of the sword, turning slowly to drag my glowing eyes over the tiered seating. The purple static of my magic thickens the air, a suffocating, physical weight that forces the lesser lords back into their chairs. "Any faction that attempts to dispute this claim will share Zatori’s fate."

I reach out, pulling Esme flush against my side. I wrap my arm around her waist, my hand splaying possessively over her ribs. The shared magic hums between us, the silver Wildspont energy visible to any noble with the sight to see it.

"Furthermore," I continue, my voice dropping to a freezing, lethal purr. "The human at my side is not a stray. She is not a mistress. She is my bound mate. We share a lifeforce. We share a magic."

The declaration hits the room like a painful physical blow. The Khuzuth mating bond is sacred, a permanent tether rarely utilized even among our own kind, let alone bestowed upon a human laborer. The prejudice of the dark elf nobility is ancient, woven into the very fabric of their caste laws.

A low, furious hiss rises from the elder lords.

"An abomination!" An ancient noblewoman snarls from the second tier, her clawed hands gripping the stone railing. "A Khuzuth lord binding his soul to livestock! It pollutes the bloodline! It insults the Thirteen Hungry Maws! The council demands this union be severed!"