Page 35 of His Emotional Support Snack

He bites down.

The pain is a sharp, brief pinch, instantly overwhelmed by the blinding rush of silver magic surging to the surface. Zuirvih drinks deep, a guttural groan vibrating against my skin. The reaction is violent and immediate. The chaotic purple sparks swirling around his boots erupt into a localized storm, weaving through the air to tangle with the radiant silver light spilling from my veins.

The shared magic binds us. It is a physical weight, a warm, humming current that bridges the gap between the human and the monster, locking our pulses into a singular, synchronized rhythm.

I lean against him, my free hand gripping the gold epaulet on his shoulder to keep my knees from buckling as the raw power floods the room. He pulls the lethal, ancient strength from my blood, his chest expanding, his skin flushing with an untouchable, terrifying vitality.

He pulls back, his fangs retracting. He licks the puncture wound, the silver light fading as the flesh knits itself back together seamlessly. He stares down at me, his mouth smeared with a faint trace of red. The violet fire in his eyes is absolute.

"I will return for you," Zuirvih whispers, pressing a bruising, desperate kiss to the center of my forehead.

A deafening, concussive boom shatters the silence.

The floorboards violently heave beneath our boots. The blast rocks the entire eastern wall of the estate, sending a shower of plaster dust drifting from the vaulted ceiling of the armory. The rows of spears clatter against the stone walls, a chaotic, jarring symphony of steel.

The heavy iron barricades of the lower courtyards scream as they are torn apart.

The siege has begun.

22

ZUIRVIH

The concussive force of the blast vibrates up through the soles of my boots, rattling the armor plates secured across my chest. The armory shudders. Dust rains down from the stone ceiling, coating the polished steel weapons lining the walls.

I release Esme, turning on my heel. I do not look back. If I look at her, the feral, desperate need to lock her in a vault and stand guard over the door will override the tactical necessity of defending the perimeter.

I draw my longsword. The steel rings sharply, a high, singing note that cuts through the ringing in my ears. The silver blood rushing through my veins acts as an accelerant. The magic in my core is a roaring, volatile inferno, untethered by the Marrow-Rot, demanding release.

I burst through the oak doors, sprinting down the western corridor. The air pressure drops violently in my wake, the Deceiver’s shadows detaching from the walls to trail behind me like a pack of starved hounds.

I reach the grand iron gates leading to the eastern courtyard. They hang twisted on their hinges, the thick metal melted and warped by whatever alchemical explosive Zatori’s vanguard utilized.

I step through the ruined archway into the open air.

The courtyard is a nightmare of smoke and slaughter. The crushed pearl pathways are already stained black. Lord Zatori’s assassins flood over the shattered remnants of the eastern wall, swarming the grounds like a plague of emerald-scaled locusts. They wear the coiled viper sigil of The Serpent, their venomed blades flashing in the bruising twilight.

Commander Jarek holds the center line. His elite Miou warriors form a tight, unyielding phalanx, their twin curved blades a blur of lethal motion. The clash of steel on steel is deafening, punctuated by the wet, sickening sounds of tearing flesh and dying screams.

I do not issue a command. I do not pause to assess the numbers.

I raise my free hand, fingers splayed wide, and slam my palm down against the ruined cobblestones.

I release the chaos.

The purple magic erupts from my core, a blinding, localized shockwave that ripples outward across the courtyard. The raw energy strikes the stone beneath the feet of the advancing Serpent vanguard. Reality warps. The solid cobblestones liquefy instantly, turning into a bubbling, volatile expanse of molten glass.

The front line of Zatori’s assassins shrieks. Dozens of dark elves plunge knee-deep into the liquid trap, the molten stone searing through their armor and fusing their flesh to the earth. They thrash, trapped in the agonizing heat, their venomed daggers clattering uselessly against the ground.

I drag my longsword up, striding directly into the chaos.

The remaining invaders scramble over their trapped comrades, eyes wide with the realization that the master of Vhoig is not dying in his bed.

The first assassin lunges at me, swinging a jagged, green-tipped blade toward my throat. I parry the strike with a flick of my wrist, the impact jarring my forearm. I pivot on my heel, driving the pommel of my sword into his temple. The bone crunches. I follow the momentum, bringing the blade around in a devastating, horizontal arc that severs his head from his shoulders.

Hot, dark blood sprays across the gold runes of my armor.

I step over the falling corpse, my blade becoming a blur of lethal precision. I carve through the green-clad ranks, the Deceiver’s shadows wrapping around my boots, snapping the ankles of any enemy foolish enough to step too close.