Page 2 of His Emotional Support Snack

Kalan cries out, the sound sharp and terrifying as we burst from behind the crates and tear down a new corridor of brick and shadow. My lungs burn, screaming for oxygen. The rain blinds me, turning the alleyway into a dark, watery blur.

Stone walls rise higher on either side, narrowing dangerously. The cobblestones give way to uneven, cracked slate. Above us, the immense, sweeping stone arches supporting the wealthy city block out the storm-churned sky. The very bricks vibrate, sending a low, buzzing hum through the soles of my boots and rattling my teeth. High-tier magic pulses overhead, a constant, oppressive reminder of the untouchable power wielded by the Khuzuth elite living in luxury while we rot in the damp below.

A wall of solid, unyielding stone emerges from the darkness ahead.

I slam into the dead end, the impact bruising my shoulder and forcing a gasp from my burning lungs. Desperation claws at my chest. I spin around, pressing my back against the vibrating wall, trapping Kalan behind the meager shield of my own body.

The assassin steps into the mouth of the alleyway.

His eyes stream with dark, oily tears from the abrasive sand, but his smirk remains. The remaining two assassins fall into step behind him, sealing off any chance of escape. They spread out, pacing forward with that same measured, predatory glide, their venom-laced daggers held at the ready.

"Clever," the lead assassin hisses, wiping the grit from his cheek. "But ultimately useless."

He raises the dripping blade, the green venom hissing as the rain strikes the metal. He shifts his weight, the emerald scales on his bracers flexing as he prepares to drive the steel straight through my chest and into the child.

I grit my teeth, my fingers curling into tight fists. I have no weapons. I have no magic. I have nothing but the fragile, breakable shell of a human body, and I will use every inch of it to make him fight for this kill.

The assassin's arm snaps forward, the blade descending in a lethal, flashing arc.

A sudden, blinding burst of violet chaos magic explodes from the mouth of the alley.

2

ZUIRVIH

Violet sparks hiss against the rain-slicked cobblestones, dying in the deluge.

A smoking, foul-smelling mound of gray dust is all that remains of Zatori’s assassin. I step over the disintegrating pile, the toe of my leather boot grinding a charred emerald scale into the muck of the alleyway. Specks of black residue cling to the ends of my silver braids, the scent of vaporized flesh and raw ozone catching in my throat.

A white-hot spike of agony tears through my chest.

The Marrow-Rot awakens. The raw exertion of channeling high-level magic feeds the dormant poison coiled around my core. My ribcage locks. Veins turn to boiling tar beneath my skin, a necrotic, creeping blackness spiderwebbing rapidly up my throat.

I lift a gloved hand, hooking a thumb beneath the rigid gold collar of my tunic to adjust the high neckline. The movement is flawlessly smooth, a practiced aristocratic sweep that perfectly masks the tremor in my fingers. With a sharp exhale, I force a minor, localized illusion over my own flesh, painting the dying, poisoned skin with the unblemished, cold ash-grey complexion of a healthy Khuzuth lord.

No one will witness the decay. No one can ever uncover the weakness.

The alleyway reeks of harbor rot and stagnant water, but cutting through the stench is the sharp, metallic tang of human terror.

Pinned against the vibrating stone wall at the dead end of the passage is a woman. Her salt-stained linen tunic clings to a whip-cord lean frame, hollowed out by Lowtown starvation but braided with taut, athletic muscle. She does not cower. Her chin tips upward, dark eyes observing every shift of my shoulders, every crackle of static across my knuckles. She possesses the fierce, dangerous stillness of a cornered beast calculating exactly how much blood she can draw before her neck is snapped.

A pale, uneven scar peeks through the torn, wet fabric over her ribs. Rain plasters dark strands of hair to her cheeks, framing a face locked in absolute, defiant hostility.

Tucked securely behind her thigh is the prize.

The boy whimpers, a fragile, trembling sound that barely penetrates the drumming storm. Small, dirty fingers clutch fistfuls of the woman’s ruined trousers. He peeks out from the shelter of her legs.

Even smeared in alley mud, the Tagnadaet bloodline is undeniable. Silver hair, identical to the braids hanging over my own shoulders, glows faintly in the ambient dark. Slightly pointed ears twitch at the thunder. Violet eyes—wide and terrified—stare up at me.

My brother’s legacy. Trapped in a festering slum, hunted by the God of Pain’s zealots, and guarded by an ownerless human laborer.

"Mama." The boy’s voice cracks, his grip on her leg tightening.

"Hush, Kalan. Do not look at him." Her voice is remarkably steady, a low, soothing rhythm directly at odds with the feral tension in her shoulders. She shifts her stance, widening her feet, subtly shielding the child further from my line of sight.

A dark amusement ripples through the burning ache in my chest. A human, weaponless and shivering in the rain, attempting to physically block a Khuzuth noble from his own blood.

"Such a touching display." The words glide from my lips in a slow, mocking purr. I bridge the distance between us, my strides unhurried. The chaotic mist of my magic drifts around my boots, warping the shadows on the brick walls into elongated, dancing shapes. "But highly impractical. You are cornered, little rat, and holding something that does not belong to you."