Page 64 of Dark Elf Makes Five

Zerion follows my gaze and his expression hardens into something dangerous. He swings down from the equus in one fluid motion, then reaches up to help me dismount. His hands are steady on my waist, but I can feel the tension coiled in his muscles.

"You stay out here," he says, already signaling to the guards.

"Like hell I will." The words come out harsher than I intended, but I'm not about to wait outside while my siblings might be suffering just beyond that door.

"Kessara." His tone brooks no argument. "Stay with Garrett. Keep the equus ready in case we need to leave quickly."

He turns to the remaining guards, his voice dropping into the commanding tone I've learned means absolute obedience.

"Follow me. Weapons ready, but no one moves until I give the signal."

My heart pounds against my ribcage as I watch him approach the warehouse door, the guards flanking him like shadows. They disappear inside the building, leaving me with Garrett and the restless equus, every second stretching into eternity.

34

ZERION

The warehouse door gives way with barely a whisper, its hinges so corroded they offer no resistance. I step into the musty darkness, the scent of rotting wood and stagnant water filling my nostrils. Dust motes dance in the thin shafts of light filtering through gaps in the weathered walls.

The fabric scrap burns in my palm like a brand. They're here. Every instinct I possess screams confirmation—the same way I can sense a storm approaching or detect movement in the forest. My children are somewhere in this decaying tomb of commerce.

I cannot be too late. Not again.

Behind me, my guards move with practiced silence, their boots finding the solid planks between loose boards that would creak under careless steps. The warehouse stretches before us like a cavern, filled with the detritus of abandoned trade—crates stacked haphazardly, barrels listing at drunken angles, canvas sacks that have burst and spilled their contents across the floor.

Voices drift from somewhere deeper in the building, too distant to make out words but close enough to confirm we're not alone. I raise my hand, signaling the guards to spread out as we navigate the maze of forgotten cargo.

The wooden crates bear faded markings from shipping companies that probably dissolved years ago. Water damage has warped most of the containers beyond recognition, their contents long since claimed by rot or vermin. This place has been abandoned for seasons, maybe longer—which makes it perfect for the kind of business these men conduct.

We weave between towers of moldering grain sacks, following the sound of conversation that grows clearer with each step. The voices lead us toward the back of the warehouse, where a structure that might once have served as an office rises from the maze like a ship's cabin.

Light seeps through cracks in the office walls, and the voices become distinct enough to understand. Two men, discussing their cargo with the casual indifference of merchants haggling over livestock.

"—told us fifty daler each," one says, his accent marking him as someone from the southern ports. "But I'm thinking our employer didn't account for the complications."

"What complications?" The second voice carries a rougher edge, like gravel grinding against stone. "Three brats and a wagon ride. Easiest money I've made all season."

"You see that estate we lifted them from? That wasn't some farmer's cottage. That was noble property, and they're gonna be searching for these little rats."

I press closer to the office wall, my guards flanking me like shadows. Through a gap between warped boards, I can make out two figures—one tall and lean, the other shorter but broader through the shoulders. Neither looks like the type to show mercy if the price is wrong.

"For some human kids?" Gravel-voice asks. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm thinking we double the fee. Maybe triple it. Our employer wants these children badly enough to risk stealing from a dark elf lord? Then she can pay what they're actually worth."

My jaw clenches. She. So Selmyra is behind this, just as I suspected.

"And if she refuses?"

The lean one chuckles, a sound that makes my skin crawl with its casual cruelty.

"Then we take our merchandise to the black market. I know dealers there who pay premium prices for young stock, especially if they're already broken in for service. That little human girl alone would fetch enough to keep us comfortable for months."

The rage hits me like a blow, white-hot and consuming. The scrap of fabric crumbles in my clenched fist as every muscle coils for violence. These animals are discussing selling Lysa—sweet, clever Lysa—like she's nothing more than commodity.

They're discussing my family like livestock to be auctioned.

The lean man continues with the detached interest of someone evaluating market prices.