Page 59 of Dark Elf Makes Five

The force of her conviction slams into me painfully. Draven and his second exchange glances, clearly uncomfortable witnessing this confrontation between their lord and the human woman who has somehow claimed equal footing in his household.

But she's right. The admission tastes bitter, but I cannot deny the truth of her words. If our positions were reversed, if someone I loved had been taken, nothing in this world could keep me from the search.

"Yes, my sweet."

Draven raises a brow at me, a slight smirk threatening to overtake him. I narrow my eyes at him, and he simply nods, ushering his second through the door and telling us they leave in ten minutes.

Cheeky bastard, looking at me as though I am whipped for this small human woman.

I watch as Kessara gets to her feet, ties her hair back and heads for the door. She looks at me over her shoulder, expression full of expectation and impatience. "Well? Are you coming?"

I chuckle, shaking my head gently. "Yes, my sweet."

Gods, I am entirely whipped for this woman.

31

KESSARA

The steady rhythm of hoofbeats against muddy earth pounds through my chest like a second heartbeat, each strike marking another moment my siblings remain lost. Zerion's arms encircle me with warmth that does nothing to chase away the ice in my veins, his chest solid against my back as we follow the wagon tracks deeper into the forest.

The rain has gentled from the earlier downpour, but cold droplets still find ways to slip beneath my collar and trickle down my spine. I press closer against Zerion's heat, hating how much I need the comfort of his presence when fury should be the only thing sustaining me right now.

"How much further?" The words scrape from my throat, roughened by tears I refuse to let fall again and the kind of desperation that claws at my chest with every breath. "How long until we find them? Until we bring them home where they belong?"

The question hangs in the damp air between us, carried away on the wind that rustles through the trees overhead. I hate how small my voice sounds, how the fear bleeds through despite my efforts to contain it. Hate that I'm asking questions he cannot possibly answer with certainty, but I need something—anything—to anchor myself to in this nightmare.

His breath warms the shell of my ear as he leans down, the movement deliberate and controlled even on equuback. When he speaks, his voice communicates that steady confidence I've somehow learned to rely on even when everything else crumbles and falls apart around us like ash.

"Soon."

The single word is both promise and reassurance, delivered with such unwavering certainty that I almost believe it. Almost.

The promise hangs between us like morning mist rising from the forest floor, fragile and impossible to grasp with trembling fingers. I want to believe him with every fiber of my being, need to believe him more than I've needed anything in my entire life, but doubt gnaws at whatever remains of my composure with sharp, relentless teeth. What if we're too late? What if whoever took them has already hurt them, or worse—what if we never find them at all? What if they're calling for me right now and I can't hear them?

"Stop."

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, using the sharp pain to anchor myself before the spiraling thoughts can drag me under again into that dark place where nothing exists except terror and helplessness. The metallic taste of blood spreads across my tongue, grounding me in the present moment. Bran, Lysa, and Tobin are alive. They have to be alive because the alternative—the possibility that they might not be—will destroy whatever fragile remains of my sanity I've managed to cling to throughout this endless, horrible night.

The equus beneath us shifts restlessly, picking up on the tension radiating from both riders. Its hooves squelch in the mud as Zerion guides it around deeper ruts carved by wagon wheels, following the trail that leads ever deeper into territory I've never explored.

Trees press close on either side of the narrow road, their branches forming a canopy that blocks most of the weak moonlight struggling through the clouds. Shadows dance between the trunks, creating shapes that could hide anything or anyone watching our progress.

"My lord!"

Draven's voice slices through the night air like a blade, sharp with urgency that makes my pulse spike. The captain raises his fist, and the entire search party draws to an immediate halt. Leather creaks as riders shift in their saddles, hands moving instinctively toward weapon hilts.

Zerion urges our mount forward until we draw alongside Draven's position. The captain's weathered face appears grim in the pale light, his gray-streaked hair still damp from the earlier rain. He points toward a cluster of broken branches hanging at odd angles from a massive oak.

"There. Recently snapped, probably within the last few hours."

My eyes follow his gesture, and my heart lurches as I spot the obvious signs of passage. Branches torn away at shoulder height, bark scraped from tree trunks, and most damning of all—a set of wagon tracks veering sharply off the main road and disappearing into the dense undergrowth.

"That's where they went." The certainty hits me like lightning, electric and undeniable.

Zerion's arms tighten around my waist, his body coiling with predatory tension that I can feel in every line of his frame. When he speaks, his voice carries death in its depths.

"Draven, have three riders and block the crossroads to the east and south. Nothing passes without inspection." Zerion's voice carries along the night air with military precision. "Send Thale ahead on foot to scout the path."