Page 9 of His Emotional Support Snack

I study her face. The Deceiver is my patron; the art of the lie is my native tongue. I search the tense lines around her mouth, the white-knuckled grip she keeps on the child, the flaring of her nostrils. I look for the micro-expressions of deception, the subtle flinch that betrays a falsehood. A human from the Lowtown claiming the Tagnadaet heir as her own flesh and blood defies logic. The biology alone makes it nearly impossible.

Yet, there is nothing but raw, unadulterated maternal fury blazing in her eyes. Her protective instincts are flawless. She would burn Vhoig to ash to keep this child breathing. The conviction staggers me. It is a devotion foreign to the cutthroat halls of the high-tier courts. She is telling the truth, or she is the greatest liar on Protheka.

A jagged hook of agony sinks into my chest.

The toxic reacts.

The exertion of channeling the shadow-warping illusion to choke Lord Vane in the courtyard was a reckless expenditure. The necrotic poison coiled around my magical core feasts on the drained energy. A white-hot fire erupts beneath my ribs, turning the blood in my chest to boiling pitch. It feels as though crushed glass is circulating through my cardiovascular system, shredding the arteries from the inside out.

My jaw locks.

The seamless, localized glamour painting my face shatters. It dissolves into a mist of fading purple sparks. The healthy, aristocratic complexion drains away, replaced by a ghostly, sickly ash. Beneath the collar of my tunic, veins bulge against the inner lining of my skin. They turn a putrid, unnatural black. The necrosis spiderwebs rapidly up the sides of my neck, creeping toward my jawline.

I stumble backward. The room tilts violently.

My hip strikes the obsidian desk. I grip the polished stone, the leather of my gloves creaking as I fight to remain upright. The pain is a tearing thing, shredding my internal organs, a relentless reminder of the ticking clock measuring my life. I sink into the high-backed leather chair, my chest heaving in shallow, ragged hitches. The scent of ozone sours, turning into the stench of rotting magic.

Cold sweat beads on my brow. My vision narrows, the room blurring into a dark, suffocating tunnel. I fight to draw oxygen into my burning lungs, each inhale rattling with a wet, sickly wheeze.

Esme does not run. She does not scramble for the locked iron doors.

She watches.

The feral hostility in her eyes shifts, morphing into a sharp, calculating vigilance. She takes a slow step forward. Her bare feet make no sound on the rugs. Her gaze drops to the black, poisoned veins pressing against my throat. She dissects the scene, mapping my vulnerability with cold precision. She observes the monster bleeding out in his own chair.

"Get out." The command tears from my throat, a bitter rasp devoid of any smoothness. I wave a trembling hand toward the adjoining chamber door, refusing to meet her eyes. The humiliation of this weakness burns worse than the poison. "Take the boy. Do not come out until the Zagfer brings your evening meal."

She hesitates. The silence in the study stretches, taut and dangerous.

I close my eyes, resting my head against the back of the leather chair, focusing every remaining ounce of energy on locking the chaotic sparks radiating from my chest into a tight, controlled sphere. If the magic backfires now, the resulting explosion will vaporize the entire wing of the estate. I grit my teeth, the taste of copper flooding my mouth as I battle the decaying core.

The rustle of silk breaks the quiet. She scoops Kalan into her arms. Her footsteps retreat across the marble floor, but they pause at the adjoining door. I crack an eye open. She lingers in the archway, her eyes noting the violent shaking in my hands, locking onto the dark necrotic magic radiating from my chest.

She absorbs the truth. The master of Vhoig is rotting from the inside out.

The adjoining door opens, then clicks shut, leaving me alone in the shadows. The game of masks is unraveling, and the poison advances with every spell I cast.

7

ESME

Three weeks in the Tagnadaet estate carve a rigid, suffocating pattern into my bones.

By day, the theater demands perfection. I wear the degrading emerald silks and the collar, walking through the crushed pearl pathways of the gardens. I play the favored pet. I keep my eyes lowered, my posture submissive, masking the feral tension coiling my muscles. Zuirvih plays the arrogant tyrant, his hand resting possessively on my waist, his gaze daring Zatori’s spies to challenge his claim.

The facade keeps Zatori’s assassins at bay. It keeps Kalan breathing.

But the nights strip the illusion away.

A violent, wet cough tears through the thick stone walls separating my bedchamber from the master suite. It is a ragged, agonizing noise, the sound of tearing tissue and drowning lungs. It echoes into the quiet darkness, dragging me from a restless sleep.

I stare up at the draped canopy of the bed, my chest tight. The coughing fits have worsened. Three weeks ago, they were brief, stifled behind locked doors. Tonight, the hacking drags on for agonizing minutes, punctuated by the shattering of glass and a low, guttural groan.

Survival in Vhoig requires constant calculation. The Tagnadaet lord is my only shield. His cruel reputation and chaotic magic form the invisible barrier keeping Kalan safe from the torture pits. If that shield splinters—if the rot inside Zuirvih finally claims his life—the estate falls. Zatori will sweep in before the skin cools, and my son will be bled dry on a Serpent altar.

I need to know how much time we have left.

I throw back the silk sheets, the cool midnight air biting at my bare arms. Sliding off the mattress, my feet make no sound against the black marble. In the corner of the room, a mountain of bristling black fur shifts. Vesper raises his massive head, one crimson eye cracking open in the gloom. The Batlaz lets out a soft, questioning huff.