2. Zerion
ZERION
The great hall swallows the sound of our footsteps as my guards escort the thief inside.
Tapestries depicting ancient elven victories line the stone walls, their rich colours muted in the flickering candlelight.
I settle into my high-backed chair behind the massive oak table that dominates the room's centre, while one of my men drags a simple wooden chair across the flagstones for her.
She perches on its edge like a sparrow ready to take flight, shoulders hunched against the chill that seeps through these old walls. Her dark hair has escaped whatever knot she'd twisted it into, falling in tangled waves around a face that catches my attention despite myself.
The bone structure underneath speaks of better breeding than her circumstances suggest—high cheekbones that mirror my own kind's aristocratic lines, a stubborn chin that tilts upward even now.
Her eyes flash defiance, dark as winter storms. Under different circumstances, with proper nutrition and clothing, she might be considered striking by human standards.
But the hollows beneath those cheekbones tell a different story. Her collarbone juts sharp against the threadbare fabric of her dress, and the way she unconsciously presses a hand to her ribs speaks of intimate familiarity with hunger. The sight draws my mouth into a disgusted line.
"Your name."
"Kessara." She wraps her arms around herself, though whether from cold or nerves, I cannot tell.
"And these siblings you mentioned—how many?"
"Three." Her chin lifts higher.
I lean against my chair, studying the way her fingers worry at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Your parents are dead?"
"Yes."
"And you have no other relatives?"
A bitter laugh escapes her throat. "Of course I do. But they're like you."
"I doubt that."
"Yes, exactly like you." The correction comes sharp and quick. "Only concerned with themselves."
I ignore the barb. "What work do you do?"
Her shoulders sag slightly. "Whatever I can find. Washing clothes, scrubbing floors, helping with harvests when the season's right. But it's not enough." She meets my gaze directly. "It's never enough."
"And they depend entirely on you."
"Yes." She grits the word out between her clenched teeth, clearly fed up with my questioning. "No matter what you ask me, I'm all the have. They're all—" She stops herself, jaw clenching.
The moonlight filters through the glass, casting pale squares across the stone floor between us. She watches my every movement with those storm-dark eyes, and I find myself studying her reflection in the window rather than the grounds beyond.
By all rights, I should have her dragged to the mines.
The silver deposits beneath my lands always need fresh workers, and theft from a noble estate carries that exact penalty.
Her siblings would starve within a fortnight, but that consequence falls on her shoulders, not mine.
No one steals from Lord Zerion Morvath and walks away unpunished.
Yet something stays my hand.
I turn back to face her, and our eyes lock across the breadth of the hall.
A peculiar sensation strikes my chest—a flutter of something I cannot name.
She should be groveling by now, weeping and begging for mercy like every other human who has found themselves in similar circumstances.
Instead, she holds my gaze with a steadiness that borders on reckless.
The tremor in her hands betrays her fear, but she refuses to bow her head. Refuses to break. Most humans would have already abandoned those siblings she speaks of, scattered like leaves before the first winter wind. Her own family certainly had.
Why does she persist when abandonment would be easier?
"You will work for me."
The words emerge without conscious thought, surprising us both. Her eyes widen, then narrow with suspicion.
"Work for you?" She shifts in her chair, spine straightening. "Doing what exactly?"
The slight hitch in her voice, the way her gaze darts momentarily to the floor before snapping back to mine—I recognize the direction of her thoughts immediately. Most humans brought into dark elf households serve one particular purpose, after all. The assumption amuses me more than it should.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. "Cleaning, cooking, tending to the garden—whatever the household needs."
"And my wages? How much?" The question tumbles out before she can stop herself, though her voice carries that careful tone people use when they expect disappointment.
I cross my arms and lean back against my chair, watching her face closely. "You will get no wages."
The colour drains from her cheeks so quickly I think she might faint. Her hands grip the edge of her chair until her knuckles turn white. "No wages?"
"No." I keep my voice level, unmoved by the panic flickering across her features. "You will be fed, clothed, and housed here. No need for wages."
She shakes her head violently, dark hair whipping around her shoulders. "I can't do that." The words rush out in a breathless tumble. "I have a family to take care of. I need wages to feed three other mouths, clothe three other bodies, find them somewhere to sleep at night."
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and I can practically see her mind racing through calculations—how long her siblings can survive without her income, what meager savings might remain hidden beneath loose floorboards, which neighbours might spare a crust of bread before turning them away.
The desperation in her eyes strikes something unexpected in my chest. Most humans would leap at the chance for steady meals and shelter, even without coin.
But she sits before me, rejecting what many would consider generous terms because three children depend on her stubborn refusal to abandon them.
Fascinating.
"They will join you here."
Her mouth falls open slightly, and for a moment she looks younger than her years. Vulnerable. "What?"
"Your siblings." I rise up from my chair and move to the window, gazing out at the moonlit grounds. "They will live here as well. Fed, clothed, educated if they have the capacity for it."
Behind me, I hear her chair scrape against the stone as she shifts. "You would do that? Take in three children you've never met?"
"I have room." I turn back to face her, noting how she searches my expression for some hidden trap. Smart girl. "This estate requires considerable maintenance. Extra hands are always useful."
"Even children's hands?"
"Children grow into adults." I move back to the table, placing my palms flat against its surface. "Tell me where they are."
She blinks rapidly, and I wonder if those are tears threatening to spill. "In the village. The old Miller's cottage at the edge of—"
"Halvren." My voice carries easily through the hall's vaulted ceiling.
Footsteps echo from the corridor before my steward appears in the doorway, grey hair slightly mussed from sleep but his posture as straight as ever. "Yes, my lord?"
"Take two men and retrieve this woman's siblings from the village. The old Miller's cottage."
Halvren's weathered face shows no surprise at the unusual request. After forty years in my service, little fazes him. "At once, my lord."
"And what of this one," the guard who caught Kessara asks me.
I give her a once over. "Take her to the kitchens. It's obvious she needs something to eat."