Page 30 of His Emotional Support Snack

But outside the heavy iron doors of his suite, the cutthroat reality of the city waits.

The stiff velvet collar of the navy blue gown bites into the underside of my jaw, a harsh reminder of the performance required tonight.

Woven with intricate gold threads, the silk cascades over my frame in a liquid, flawless display of Tagnadaet wealth. The cut is conservative, devoid of the degrading sheer panels favored by the city’s mistresses. It climbs high up my neck, locking securely beneath my chin to conceal the twin, bruising puncture wounds hidden in the hollow of my throat.

A secret pact sealed in blood, hidden beneath yards of expensive fabric.

The carriage lurches to a halt, the iron-rimmed wheels grinding against the crushed stone of the courtyard. The doors swing open.

Lord Zatori’s estate rises against the bruising twilight of Vhoig like a monument to suffering. Jagged, obsidian spires pierce the sky. Emerald silk banners drape from the balconies, depicting the coiled, venomous iconography of The Serpent. A suffocating, cloying incense bleeds from bronze braziers flanking the grand staircase—a sickeningly sweet mixture of crushed lilies and crusted blood designed to mask the underlying rot of the faction.

Zuirvih steps from the carriage first. He wears the formal armor of his house, midnight blue plates etched in gold, the silver braids of his hair bound tightly with obsidian beads. He turns, offering a gloved hand.

I place my fingers in his grip. The spark of his magic buzzes against my skin, a grounding, vital current steadying the erratic flutter of my pulse. I step onto the cobblestones, pulling my posture into a rigid, unyielding line.

"Keep your gaze level," Zuirvih murmurs, his voice barely a breath against the ambient noise of the gathering nobility. "Do not let them trap you in a corner. If a servant offers you a drink, refuse it."

I give a singular nod, stepping to his side.

We ascend the grand staircase. The Khuzuth elite part for the master of Vhoig, their hushed whispers trailing in our wake like venomous snakes. The restored, terrifying vitality radiating from Zuirvih acts as a physical barrier, pushing the lesser lords back into the shadows of the arched entryway.

Lord Zatori waits at the threshold of the grand feasting hall.

The elder dark elf leans on a staff of twisted black iron. The sickly, green glow of Serpent magic pulses beneath his skin, lighting his slit-pupiled eyes with a bilious hue. He tracks our approach, his gaze slithering over Zuirvih’s flawless complexion before snapping directly to me.

"Nephew," Zatori purrs, the syllables hissing through his yellowed fangs. "A miraculous recovery. The court gossips insist you possess the vitality of a lord half your age. And you brought your... stray."

"My favored." Zuirvih corrects him, the temperature in the entryway plunging into a sudden, biting chill. "A jewel of the Tagnadaet house."

Zatori’s slit-pupils contract. He leans forward, his gaze dropping from my eyes to the stiff, high collar locking around my neck. The scrutiny is a physical pressure, scraping against my skin.

"A conservative choice for a warm evening, human." The elder lord taps his iron staff against the stone floor. "One might assume you are hiding the bite of a wild dog."

"She wears my colors, uncle." Zuirvih steps marginally closer, bridging the distance, forcing Zatori to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. "She wears what I command. Let us not waste the evening discussing tailoring."

Zatori’s jaw clenches, a flash of murderous frustration bleeding into his green eyes before he smooths the expression into a cold, aristocratic smile. He sweeps a clawed hand toward the cavernous dining hall.

The feast is a trap of velvet and poison.

A sprawling table of polished bone dominates the hall, laden with roasted meats, exotic fruits, and crystal decanters of Paquir wine. The seating arrangement is a calculated strike. Zuirvih is guided toward the head of the table, flanked by rival warlords and council members.

I am escorted to the opposite end.

The distance stretches between us, a vast chasm populated by dozens of lethal, plotting nobles. I take my seat, the pearl-inlaid chair scraping against the floorboards.

The women of the Khuzuth elite surround me.

They wear sheer, draped silks in shades of crimson and emerald, their skin flawless, their strands twisted into elaborate, gravity-defying crowns. They do not speak to me immediately. They observe. They dissect the cut of my gown, the callouses on my hands, the rigid set of my jaw, searching for the Lowtown filth lingering beneath the gold threads.

A noblewoman to my left, bearing the scaled tattoos of the Vane house, lifts her crystal goblet.

"Tell me, human." Her voice is a sharp, tinkling chime, carrying over the ambient hum of the feast. "Does the half-blood whine like a dock-rat, or does he possess a sliver of Tagnadaet grace?"

The surrounding women fall silent, their glowing violet and eyes locking onto my face, waiting for the fragile prey to break.

I pick up my silver fork, turning it slowly in my grip. The metal is cool, grounding the adrenaline spiking in my veins.

"He possesses his father's strength," I state flatly, meeting the noblewoman's stare without a flinch. "He rarely cries. He prefers to hunt the garden beasts."