Page 71 of Dark Elf Makes Five

"Ready?" I whisper, smoothing a damp curl back from her cheek.

She nods, wiping her nose on her sleeve with the unself-conscious practicality of a child who has always had more important things to worry about than manners.

We slip out into the hallway together, where Bran and Tobin wait in tense silence, small bundles clutched tight against their chests. Tobin has his chin lifted in that way he does when he is trying to look braver than he feels, his scuffed knees pressed together beneath too-long trousers. Bran stands slightly in front of him, as he always does, shoulders squared with a protectiveness far older than his thirteen years. Everything they own in this world has been reduced to what fits in their arms—a handful of worn clothing, a few small keepsakes, the entirety of four lives bundled into scraps of fabric tied with rough cord.

"The guards who brought us home are the only ones here right now," I murmur, keeping my voice low as we creep toward the main staircase. "Most of the others are still out searching. We can slip out the same way I snuck in all those weeks ago."

The irony isn't lost on me—escaping the same way I entered, but this time taking everything precious with me instead of stealing it.

38

ZERION

Selmyra sits bound to a wooden chair in the centre of the warehouse, her elaborate gown now torn and stained with dust from the rotting floorboards. The midnight silk that once proclaimed her nobility hangs in tatters around her ankles, and her carefully arranged hair has come loose from its pins to fall in disheveled waves across her shoulders. My guards form a tight circle around her, their weapons drawn and pointed at her chest.

The elegant mask she wore for decades has finally slipped. Without the careful cosmetics and practiced expressions, her face reveals the desperation that has been eating at her from within—hollow cheeks, shadows beneath her silver eyes, the tight lines around her mouth that speak of sleepless nights and mounting panic.

"What was your plan?" I step closer, letting my voice carry the full weight of my authority through the cavernous space. The words echo off the warehouse walls, bouncing back with sharp edges that make her flinch. "What did you hope to gain by taking three innocent children?"

She lifts her chin with what remains of her noble pride, but her hands shake where they're bound behind the chair. "They're just humans."

The dismissive words drip with such obvious distaste that my jaw clenches involuntarily. She speaks of Bran, Lysa, and Tobin as if they were livestock—disposable creatures beneath her notice.

"Tell me!" The command explodes from my chest like thunder, reverberating through the empty warehouse with enough violent force to rattle the broken windows.

Selmyra jerks backward so violently that the chair legs scrape against the floor, her silver eyes wide with terror as she presses herself as far from me as the bonds allow. For the first time in our acquaintance, she looks genuinely afraid.

"I needed her gone," she whispers, the words tumbling out in a rush now that her composure has shattered completely. "The human girl—Kessara. I was going to trade their lives for her position. Make her choose between staying as your... your plaything, or watching them die."

The word 'plaything' wounds me like a hard physical blow, and a growl builds in my chest—a sound so primal and dangerous that even my own guards shift nervously. The rage that has been simmering beneath my control since the moment I discovered the children missing now threatens to consume everything in its path.

"You would have killed children to secure a marriage proposal?" Each word comes out clipped and precise, my voice dropping to the deadly quiet that makes seasoned warriors step back.

"I needed you to choose me instead!" Her voice rises to a desperate shriek that echoes through the warehouse like the cry of a cornered animal. "To marry me and secure my title as a proper Lady in the noble circles. After my husband's death, I had nothing left. Nothing!"

"Your husband should have left you a sizable fund to maintain your lifestyle." The statement comes out flat and cold, a simple observation that cuts through her theatrical despair.

"My husband was poor!" she shouts, spittle flying from her lips as the last of her dignity crumbles away. "His shipping business was worthless! Look around you—this warehouse, these rotting docks, the failed investments that bankrupted us both!"

She gestures wildly with her bound hands toward the decaying cargo containers and broken equipment scattered throughout the building. "I was destitute, Zerion. Completely ruined. You were my only option for survival."

The pathetic truth of it settles like a stone. All her schemes, the kidnapping, the manipulation—born not from love or even ambition, but from the desperate terror of a woman facing poverty.

"You were never an option." The words grind out between my clenched teeth like stones crushing bone. "Kessara or no Kessara, I was never interested in marrying you."

The statement hits her. All the color drains from her face until her skin resembles parchment left too long in sunlight—pale, brittle, ready to crumble at the slightest touch. Her silver eyes widen in shock, then narrow to slits filled with pure venom.

"You arrogant bastard," she whispers, her voice trembling with the force of her rage and humiliation. The words shake like leaves in a storm, barely audible but loaded with decades of entitlement finally meeting reality.

I turn away from her pathetic display and face Captain Draven, who stands at attention near the warehouse entrance. His weathered features remain impassive, though I catch the slight tightening near his eyes that suggests he's already anticipating my orders.

"Prepare her for shipment."

"Shipment?" The screech that tears from Selmyra's throat could shatter glass. She struggles against her bonds with renewed desperation, the chair rocking dangerously as she throws her weight from side to side. "What are you talking about?"

I don't bother turning back to face her. The sight of her unraveling composure no longer interests me—she's become nothing more than a problem requiring disposal.

"You'll be going somewhere very far away," I explain with the same tone I might use to discuss livestock prices. "You'll never see your home again. Be grateful for my mercy."