Page 7 of Dark Elf Makes Five

I return to my chair, the leather sighing beneath me. The protective instinct she displays doesn't surprise me—I witnessed it firsthand during her capture. But this level of isolation suggests something deeper than mere caution.

"Has anyone attempted to visit them? The cook perhaps, or one of the maids? A healer?"

Halvren's mouth twitches with what might be amusement. "Young Clara tried yesterday. She thought to bring the little girl some honey cakes. Kessara intercepted her at the door and politely but firmly declined the gesture. Clara described her manner as 'pleasant but immovable as granite.'"

The conversation leaves more questions than answers. Perhaps Kessara doesn't trust my word regarding her safety—or her siblings' welfare. The thought shouldn't sting, yet it does. I am, after all, a dark elf who caught her stealing from my estate. Her wariness makes perfect sense.

What doesn't make sense is this growing concern for four humans who should mean nothing to me. Technically worthless, as my noble peers would say. Yet here I sit, contemplating their comfort with the dedication I once reserved for estate ledgers and trade negotiations.

"Summon Kessara and Captain Draven to my study."

"At once, my lord."

Halvren's footsteps fade down the corridor, leaving me with thoughts that refuse to settle into their usual ordered patterns.

The knock comes sooner than expected—two firm taps striking wood with distinction.

"Enter."

Captain Draven steps through first, his weathered face set in its customary stern expression. Behind him, Kessara follows with the careful posture of someone expecting trouble. Her hazel eyes meet mine briefly before dropping to the fur rug beneath her worn boots.

The words I'd planned to speak—demands about her isolation, questions about her siblings' well-being—die in my throat.

She looks homeless. Tattered. The same patched dress hangs from her thin frame, the fabric more holes than cloth. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and her skin carries the pallor of exhaustion. Four days in my household, and she appears worse than when I found her stealing fruit.

Draven clears his throat, the sound sharp in the sudden silence.

I realize I've been staring. Heat crawls up my neck—an unfamiliar sensation that irritates more than embarrasses.

"You look terrible."

Kessara's spine straightens, her chin lifting with that familiar defiance. "I perform my duties adequately, my lord."

"That's not the point." I stand, moving to the safe beside my desk. The iron hinges protest as I pull it open. "You give the impression that I don't take care of my staff."

My fingers find an empty coin purse on the desk—soft leather worn smooth by countless transactions. The coins in the safe clink together as I scoop out a generous handful of dalers, dropping them into the pouch with deliberate weight.

"Pick up fresh candles from the market. And clothes. For yourself and the children."

Kessara's hands remain firmly at her sides. "That's not necessary⁠—"

"I don't care to listen to refusals." I cinch the purse strings tight and hold it out to her. "Captain Draven will escort you."

Draven shifts beside her, his armor plates scraping together. "My lord, this arrangement is likely to cause issues. A human woman under guard escort, spending your coin⁠—"

My palms slam against the desktop with enough impact to rattle the inkwell. "I won't be questioned in my own house."

Both figures before me bow their heads in unison.

"Yes, my lord."

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Good. Now go."

They turn and walk out, the doors closing gently behind them.

"Now," I murmur, "the children."

5