Page 12 of His Emotional Support Snack

But the fever burns away the pride. The isolation of the last ten years, the solitary, agonizing nights spent choking on my own blood, cracks the foundation of my resolve. She holds my life in her hands by merely existing as a prop for the court. She has already seen the rot.

"Marrow-Rot." I close my eyes, the syllables tasting of ash on my tongue. "Administered a decade ago by my ambitious uncle. A slow-acting necrotic agent designed specifically to feed on magic power."

She shifts closer on the rug. The rustle of linen is the only sound in the quiet study. "There is no cure?"

"Not on Protheka." The admission is a physical blow, a surrender I have never vocalized to another living soul. "It devours the magical core. The more power I exert, the faster it spreads. Eventually, the core implodes, taking the surrounding organs with it. I have less than five years remaining. Perhaps fewer, given the recent... exertions required to keep Zatori’s assassins out of my courtyards."

"Then stop using the magic."

I open my eyes, fixing her with a stare that carries the weight of a century of dark elf supremacy. "A Khuzuth noble who cannot command reality is a corpse waiting for a grave. If the court suspects my magic is decaying, the Tagnadaet house will be stripped of its rank. The resulting power vacuum will trigger a bloodbath. My brother’s heir—your precious son—will be the first casualty in the war for succession."

She processes the information in silence. The calculations turning behind her eyes are almost visible. She weighs the political reality against the biological decay, finding the inevitable, fatal flaw in the equation.

We are trapped in a slow-motion descent toward the executioner’s block.

A fresh wave of agony arcs through my chest. The muscles lock, a jagged spasm pulling me forward until my forehead nearly touches the floorboards. I grit my teeth, trapping the groan in my throat, fighting the urge to tear the flesh from my own ribs to dig the poison out.

"Go." The command is a ragged breath. I cannot hold the facade a second longer. "Return to your quarters. The Zagfer will clear the mess in the morning."

She does not argue. The logic of survival dictates she retreat before the wounded predator lashes out again.

She stands, the linen falling around her ankles. She pauses, her bare feet hovering near the spilled Zhisk and the shattered glass. Her gaze lingers on my bowed form for a second, the hostility replaced by a guarded, unreadable resignation.

She turns and walks out of the study.

The heavy iron doors click shut behind her, sealing me back into the dark.

I remain on the floorboards, fighting the fire consuming my veins. The room is quiet again, the metallic scent of ozone and rotting magic dominating the stale air.

Yet, beneath the stench of the rot, a faint trace remains.

The clean, fresh scent of rain on earth. It lingers in the space where she knelt, a phantom echo of her proximity. I drag in a shallow, rattling breath, focusing on the scent. For a fleeting, inexplicable second, the burning necrosis in my chest eases, cooled by the memory of calloused human fingers resting gently against my pulse.

9

ESME

The chill of the western corridor bites at my bare feet, a sharp contrast to the fevered heat radiating from the master of Vhoig just moments ago. I pull the study doors shut, sealing the dying lord inside his dark sanctum. The metal latch clicks, a small, insignificant barrier against the reality closing in on this estate.

My protection is rotting from the inside out. The invisible shield keeping Zatori’s executioners away from my son is held together by failing magic and a stubborn, putrid poison.

I navigate the labyrinth of shadows back to the nursery, my mind turning over the brutal arithmetic of survival. Bribe a smuggler. Find a ship heading for the neutral ports of Kaynvu. Steal the collar resting on the vanity, pry the ruby loose, and purchase our passage before Zuirvih’s heart stops beating.

I slip through the nursery doors. The room is quiet. Too quiet.

Kalan slumbers in the grand, silk-draped crib, his small chest rising and falling in an untroubled rhythm. Near the foot of the crib, a mountain of bristling black fur shifts. Vesper.

No alarms ring out across the estate. No shouts echo from Commander Jarek’s patrols in the lower courtyards. The magical wards guarding the high-tier windows hum with their usual, undisturbed static.

Yet, the Batlaz rises.

Vesper does not stretch or whine. The beast locks into a rigid, statuesque crouch. The thick fur along his back spikes into sharp, aggressive ridges. A low, vibrating rumble starts deep in his chest, a sound that vibrates through the floorboards and rattles the delicate crystal water glass resting on the nightstand.

Crimson eyes fixate on the sweeping glass balcony doors overlooking the black harbor.

The ambient moonlight filtering through the glass begins to warp. The shadows pooled at the base of the doors do not behave like the absence of light. They stretch. They slither. Like spilled ink defying gravity, the darkness creeps up the glass panes, suffocating the starlight.

A sharp, metallic click snarls through the silence. The balcony locks disengage.