Page 26 of His Emotional Support Snack

The pulse flutters frantically at the base of her throat, betraying the terror she refuses to voice, but her posture remains unbroken.

"I will carve ruin into the heart of Vhoig before I let you or your rotting family take him from me."

The threat rings through the quiet study. A fragile, breakable human, armed with nothing but a slave collar and a silk gown, threatening to dismantle an empire to protect a child who does not share a single drop of her blood.

The violent, twisting shadows on the walls freeze.

The cold, catastrophic fury draining from my system leaves behind a sudden, ringing silence. My magic settles, the volatile purple static dissolving into a soft, ambient glow.

I stare down at her.

My own uncle administered the Marrow-Rot, poisoning my core to steal my lands. My cousins plotted the assassination of my brother to eliminate a rival for the Tagnadaet fortune. The dark elf nobility is a festering pit of treachery, where siblings slit each other's throats for a sliver of status, and parents sacrifice their own offspring to appease the hungry gods.

Yet here stands a human laborer from the lowest rung of existence. She possesses no wealth, no magic, no legal right to breathe the air in this city. She harbors a child born of a union that cost her sister's life, carrying the burden of a Khuzuth mistake. She sacrifices her safety, risks the torture pits, and defies the most dangerous predators on Protheka for a boy not of her own flesh.

The profound, staggering loyalty humbles me.

It is a devotion far more noble, far more pure, than anything my ancient, gilded bloodline has ever produced. The betrayal I harbored mere moments ago vanishes, replaced by a deep, consuming awe.

I do not summon the guards nor reach for my sword. I simply watch the fierce, beautiful rise and fall of her chest, struck entirely silent by the magnitude of her sacrifice.

17

ESME

The pacing wears a path into the woven rugs.

Back and forth across the master bedchamber, bare feet slapping against the black marble border, my breathing a shallow, erratic rhythm. The leather pouch of stolen coins digs into my thigh through the thin emerald silk of my gown. A pathetic, useless anchor.

The adrenaline crash sets in, turning my bones to brittle glass. The confrontation in the study replays in a relentless, punishing loop. The slave certificate resting on the obsidian desk. The violent, twisting shadows. The admission tearing from my throat.

The Khuzuth operate on a currency of utility and bloodlines. I possess neither. The deception is exposed, stripped bare in the dying embers of the hearth. The only logical outcome in this cutthroat city is an execution.

I stare at the iron-wrought doors, waiting for the metallic shriek of the deadbolts. Waiting for Commander Jarek to step through the threshold with his twin curved blades drawn. My gaze darts to the glass archways. A sheer, deadly drop to the harbor below. A faster, cleaner end than the torture pits of the Serpent faction, but jumping leaves Kalan alone in a nest of vipers.

The air pressure in the room shifts. The sharp, biting tang of ozone bleeds under the doorframe.

The mechanisms within the iron lock disengage with a quiet, terrifying click.

I halt in the room, planting my feet into the rug, widening my stance. My hands curl into tight fists at my sides. My chest heaves. I will not go quietly. I will make the Miou warriors fight for every inch of the marble.

The door swings inward.

No armored guards flood the room. No curved blades catch the low light of the braziers.

Zuirvih crosses the threshold.

The volatile, crackling static of his magic is noticeably absent. The suffocating, dominating aura he wields like a weapon is pulled inward, locked away. He moves with a slow, measured quiet, his boots soundless.

He is not alone.

Cradled against the midnight-blue velvet of his tunic is Kalan. The boy is fast asleep, his small face pressed into the dark elf’s broad shoulder. One tiny fist grips the gold embroidery on Zuirvih’s lapel. The silver braids of the Khuzuth lord mix with the pale, fine strands of the child’s hair, creating a jarring, breathtaking contrast of innocence and ancient, lethal power.

My breath stalls in my throat.

Zuirvih does not look at me. He crosses the bedchamber, bypassing the vanity and the sitting area, heading straight for the silk-draped crib in the corner. Vesper, resting on the floor nearby, raises his broad, bristling head. The Batlaz lets out a soft huff, the crimson eyes tracking the master of the house, but the beast does not bare its teeth.

With excruciating care, Zuirvih leans over the wooden railing. He supports the back of Kalan’s head with one large, leather-clad hand, untangling the boy’s fist from his tunic with the other. He lowers the child onto the mattress.