Page 69 of Dark Elf Makes Five

The older man spits blood and glares at his companion with pure hatred. "You worthless⁠—"

I silence him by driving the blade between his ribs, angled upward toward his heart. He dies with his curses still forming on his lips, slumping forward against his bonds.

The younger man's scream catches in his throat as I turn back to him, the bloodied steel gleaming in the dim light.

"Please, I told you everything! You said mercy⁠—"

"Here is your mercy."

The blade slides across his throat in one smooth motion, opening his neck from ear to ear. He gurgles once before going limp, his life spreading across the warehouse floor in dark rivulets.

Draven helps me drag both bodies into the shadows behind a stack of moldering grain sacks, well out of sight from the main entrance. We work in efficient silence, cleaning the obvious bloodstains and arranging the space to appear abandoned once again.

"She'll expect to find them here," Draven observes, checking his sword before sheathing it.

"She'll find me instead."

Twilight paints the warehouse district in shades of gray and amber as I settle into position behind a support beam near the entrance. Draven waits in the opposite corner, invisible unless someone knows exactly where to look. The building settles around us with the occasional creak of aging wood and distant sounds from the harbor.

Footsteps echo across the cobblestones outside—measured, deliberate, belonging to someone who moves with practiced grace despite attempting stealth. A figure in a thick hooded cloak appears, pausing to scan the interior before stepping inside.

Selmyra pulls back her hood, revealing the elaborate silver braids and cold beauty I remember from countless noble gatherings. Her pale eyes sweep the empty warehouse with growing confusion.

"Incompetent zagfer," she mutters, her cultured voice carrying clearly in the silence. "I should have known better than to trust mercenaries with something this important."

She moves deeper into the building, her expensive boots clicking against the stone floor as she searches for any sign of her hired men or their captives.

"Looking for someone?"

I step from the shadows, and she spins toward my voice with genuine shock widening her silver eyes. For a heartbeat, her composure cracks completely.

"Zerion! I—what are you doing here? O-Oh, thank the gods. I seem to have gotten lost wandering the market district⁠—"

"You're exactly where you intended to be." I move closer, keeping my hands visible but ready. "Though I suspect you expected to find Kessara's children here, bound and gagged and ready for ransom."

Her face hardens as she realizes the game is over. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The back of my hand connects with her cheek hard enough to snap her head sideways. She staggers, one hand flying to her face as fury replaces shock in her expression.

"You never should have touched my family."

"They're human!" The words explode from her lips with decades of accumulated venom. "They are not your family, Zerion, I am! I should be the one you're protecting, not that human sack of worthless⁠—"

My hand closes around her throat, cutting off her poisonous words. Her eyes bulge as I lift her slightly, forcing her onto her toes.

"Choose your next words very carefully, Selmyra. They may be your last."

37

KESSARA

The healer's examination drags on like water torture. I pace the length of the manor's main corridor, my boots wearing a groove in the polished stone as nervous energy burns through my limbs. Every few seconds I catch myself twisting my fingers together until my knuckles crack, then force my hands to my sides before starting the motion all over again.

My mouth feels permanently pursed, lips pressed into a tight line that makes my jaw ache. The healer's low murmurs drift through the partially open door—professional observations about rope burns and bruising that make my stomach twist with fresh rage.

They're alive. They're safe. The mantra repeats in my head, but it doesn't slow my restless movement or ease the tension coiled in my chest like a spring wound too tight.

Finally, the door swings wide. Bran emerges first, his left wrist wrapped in clean linen bandages, followed by Lysa with a small patch over a scrape on her temple. Tobin bounces out last, seemingly unharmed except for the exhaustion shadowing his usually bright eyes.