Dark Elf Makes Five

1. Kessara

KESSARA

The moon hides behind clouds like it knows what I'm up to. Perfect.

I press my back against the rough stone wall surrounding the Morvath estate, the hemp sack clutched tight in my fist. My darkest skirt—which is really just my most stained one—blends with the shadows well enough.

The boots I've wrapped in cloth muffle my steps as I creep along the perimeter, searching for the gap I spotted weeks ago during my reconnaissance.

"Come on, Kessa," I whisper to myself. "Three hungry mouths depend on this."

The memory of Tam's hollow cheeks this morning steels my resolve. My youngest brother tried to hide how the watery porridge barely filled a corner of his stomach, but I caught the way he pressed his hand against his ribs when he thought I wasn't looking.

There—the loose stone I'd marked. I work it free with fingers that shake only slightly from cold, definitely not fear. The gap widens just enough for someone my size to squeeze through.

The manor looms ahead like some beast crouched in the darkness, all sharp angles and towering walls.

Windows stare down at me like dead eyes.

I've heard whispers about Lord Morvath—how he rarely leaves his estate, how the servants who work here speak in hushed tones about their master's... peculiarities.

"Peculiar or not, his fruit trees don't care who picks them."

I slip through the gap, the rough stone scraping against my shoulder blade.

The orchard spreads before me, neat rows of trees heavy with early spring growth.

Even in the dim light, I can make out the promise of apples and pears that will ripen in the coming weeks.

But it's the kitchen garden I need—the one the cook's assistant mentioned at market, where winter vegetables still hide beneath the soil and early greens might already be sprouting.

My worn boots find purchase on the soft earth between the tree rows. Each step brings me closer to salvation for my siblings, closer to another day where they won't go to bed with cramping stomachs and hollow eyes.

The sack rustles softly as I adjust my grip. Soon it will be heavy with stolen sustenance, and I'll slip back through that gap like smoke, leaving no trace except missing vegetables that a lord will never notice.

I round the corner of the manor and stop dead in my tracks.

"Sweet merciful gods."

The garden sprawls before me like something from a fever dream.

Even with winter barely loosened from the land, this place pulses with impossible life.

Vines heavy with late-season grapes cascade over wooden trellises, their leaves still green and supple.

Apple trees bow under the weight of fruit that should have been picked months ago, yet hangs perfect and unblemished.

My mouth waters so violently I have to swallow twice.

"This isn't natural." The words slip out unbidden. Nothing grows like this in early spring. Nothing stays fresh through winter without proper storage. Yet here it stands, defying every law of nature I know.

I venture deeper into the garden's embrace, my rational mind warring with desperate hunger.

Pear trees droop with golden fruit. Blackberry canes, thick as my wrist, sag under clusters of berries that gleam like dark jewels.

Even the vegetable plots burst with late carrots and winter squash that should have rotted months ago.

The sack trembles in my grip as I reach for the nearest apple tree. The fruit comes away with barely a twist, warm to the touch despite the cool night air. Into the sack it goes, followed by another, then a handful of grapes that burst with sweetness just from their scent.

My hands move without conscious thought, stuffing the hemp with whatever I can reach. Pears. More apples. A squash that weighs as much as a newborn. Berries that stain my fingers purple.

I pause, an apple halfway to the sack. The fruit sits perfect in my palm, red-gold skin catching what little moonlight filters through the clouds. My stomach clenches, empty as a beggar's purse.

"One bite won't hurt."

I sink my teeth through the crisp skin, and juice runs down my chin.

The flavor explodes across my tongue—sweet and tart and something else entirely, something that makes my eyes flutter closed.

I've stolen apples before, wizened things from merchant carts or bruised windfalls from other orchards. But this...

"Gods above and below."

I sink into the shadows between two rows, my back against a stone planter, and tear into the apple like a woman starved.

Which I am, I suppose. The flesh yields under my teeth, releasing more of that impossible sweetness.

Each bite sends warmth coursing through my chest, filling hollow spaces I'd forgotten existed.

Juice drips onto my skirt. I don't care. For the first time in months, I'm eating something that tastes like more than survival.

The apple core slips from my fingers as iron-strong hands clamp around my wrist.

"Thief!"

The shout splits the night like an axe through wood. I'm yanked from my hiding spot so hard my shoulder pops, dragged stumbling into the moonlit garden space. The guard towers over me—dark elf, lean muscle wrapped in midnight-blue leather, silver hair gleaming even in the dim light.

"Let go of me!" I twist in his grip, my free hand swinging wild. My knuckles connect with his ribs, solid as hitting a stone wall. "I said let go!"

He doesn't even flinch. His grip tightens until my bones grind together.

"Stop squirming, human."

I drive my elbow back toward his stomach. He catches my arm before it connects, spinning me around to face the manor. My boots skid against the garden path as he forces me down onto my knees, hands clamping on my shoulders like manacles.

"Please—" The word tears from my throat before I can stop it.

Footsteps approach, measured and deliberate.

A figure emerges from the shadows between the fruit trees—tall, imposing, moving with the fluid grace that marks his kind.

Even in the darkness, I catch the sharp angles of his face, the way moonlight catches silver-white hair pulled back from aristocratic features.

"Why are you stealing from my garden?" His voice holds the weight of authority, deep and smooth as aged wine.

My heart drums against my ribs so hard I'm certain he can hear it. The guard's fingers dig deeper into my shoulders, holding me in place like a pinned butterfly.

"My siblings—" The words spill out in a rush.

"They're starving. We haven't had a proper meal in weeks and the money's gone and our parents died in the mines two years ago from the lung rot and no one in town will hire me because they think I'm trouble and Bran's so thin I can count his ribs and Lysa cries herself to sleep from hunger and little Tobin doesn't even remember what it feels like to have a full belly—"

"Regardless." He cuts through my rambling with surgical precision. "Stealing is wrong."

Something hot and vicious unfurls in my chest. The guard's grip keeps me trapped, but my tongue runs free.

"Wrong?" I laugh, sharp and bitter. "You weren't even using it! Half this fruit will rot before you notice it's gone."

One silver eyebrow arches with infuriating arrogance. "I like to look out at my garden. Whether or not I plan to eat the fruit is irrelevant—it's mine."

The words land like a slap. I gather what moisture I can in my dry mouth and spit at his polished boots.

"That's because you have the luxury of seeing food as decoration.

" My voice shakes with fury. "You can stay behind your pretty walls and ignore the ugly reality that keeps you fat and comfortable.

The reality that lives just outside your gate—the one that pays for all this with their empty stomachs and broken backs. "

He stares at me for a moment, those pale eyes unreadable in the moonlight. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away even as the guard's fingers press bruises into my shoulders.

"Take her inside."