3. Kessara
KESSARA
The kitchen gleams with polished copper pots and scrubbed wooden surfaces that put our ramshackle cottage to shame.
I sink into a chair at the sturdy oak table, running my fingers along its smooth grain.
Forty minutes ago I was scaling the estate wall with stolen fruit weighing down my sack.
Now I sit in the heart of the very manor I'd violated.
The cook emerges from behind the massive stone hearth—a woman with iron-grey hair and hands that speak of decades wielding ladles and rolling pins.
She sets a bowl before me without ceremony, her face revealing nothing.
Steam rises from the thick stew, carrying the rich scent of beef and herbs that makes my stomach clench with desperate hunger.
I grab the wooden spoon and plunge it deep, not bothering with manners or small bites. The broth sears my tongue but I barely notice, too focused on the chunks of tender meat and soft vegetables that fill my mouth. Real food. More than scraps or thin gruel stretched to feed four mouths.
The grand doors crash open with a sound that reverberates through the manor's stone corridors.
Children's voices pierce the air—angry, frightened shrieks that freeze my blood.
I drop the spoon with a clatter and bolt from the kitchen, my boots sliding on the polished floors as I race toward the entrance hall.
The two elven guards Lord Morvath dispatched look like they've wrestled wild animals. Their usually pristine uniforms hang askew, hair disheveled, and one sports what look like teeth marks on his forearm. Between them, they wrangle three thrashing bundles of fury that I recognize instantly.
Bran dangles upside down from one guard's grip, his face flushed red as he swings his fists at anything within reach. The guard holds him by one ankle like a sack of grain, dodging the boy's attempts to land a punch.
"Let me go, you pointed-eared freak!" Bran snarls, his voice cracking with adolescent rage.
Tobin wraps himself around the other guard's leg like a determined barnacle, his small teeth bared as he attempts to bite through leather boots. The guard tries to shake him loose with the patience of a man clearly reconsidering his career choices.
Lysa is trapped in the arm of the guard that holds Tobin, humph-ing with each swing of her little fists and kick of her legs.
The sight is comical.
"Put him down, elven bastard!" Tobin's voice cracks with fury as he lands a solid smack against his captor's thigh.
Lord Morvath emerges from the corridor behind me, drawn by the commotion. His grey eyes take in the scene with what I can only describe as fascination rather than annoyance. The corner of his mouth twitches upward.
"Is it really so difficult to collect three human children?" His voice carries a hint of amusement that makes my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
The guard holding Bran shifts his grip, looking thoroughly defeated. "My lord, these are a particular breed of slippery human. This one nearly escaped through a window, then tried to brain me with a cooking pot. It took considerable effort to secure him."
A low chuckle rumbles from Lord Morvath's chest, the sound echoing through the vaulted ceiling. The rich timbre of his laughter catches me off guard—I expected cold displeasure, not mirth at my siblings' defiance.
Bran's face turns a deeper shade of red as he dangles from the guard's grip, his eyes blazing as they lock onto Lord Morvath. "Who are you anyway, laughing elf? I want to know your name before I beat you to a pulp!"
The guard holding him winces and adjusts his grip. "Perhaps we should gag this one, my lord."
Lord Morvath steps forward, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the marble floor. The amusement never leaves his ghostly eyes as he regards my furious brother with what seems to be genuine interest.
"I am Zerion Morvath, lord of this manor and overseer of this town." His voice communicates the weight of authority, each word precisely enunciated. "And you are?"
Bran's mouth opens, then snaps shut. For a heartbeat, uncertainty flickers across his features—even he recognizes the name that governs our lives from a distance. But his protective instincts surge back stronger than his common sense.
"I don't care if you're the bloody king of the elves!" Bran's voice cracks with renewed fury. "You had no right to drag us from our home! Where's my sister? What have you done with Kessa? I swear by all the gods, if you've hurt her, I'll—"
"Children!"
My voice cuts through his tirade like a blade. All three pairs of eyes snap toward me—Bran's wild green gaze, Tobin's freckled face twisted with confusion, and Lysa's wide hazel eyes brimming with unshed tears. The sight of their fear sends a sharp pain through my chest.
I rush toward them, my hands outstretched. "You're safe. You're all safe. No one's going to hurt you."
The guards exchange glances before unceremoniously releasing their captives. Bran hits the marble floor with a grunt, Tobin tumbles in a heap of flailing limbs, and Lysa lands on her feet with surprising grace. They scramble upright and race toward me like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
I drop to my knees just in time to catch them as they barrel into me. Lysa's arms wrap around my neck, her small body trembling against mine. Tobin burrows into my side, his face buried in my shoulder. Bran, despite his tough front, crushes himself against my other side with desperate relief.
"We thought they took you away forever." Lysa's voice breaks on a sob. "The guards came and wouldn't tell us anything. They just said we had to come with them."
"I told them you'd never leave us willingly." Tobin's words are muffled against my shirt. "I knew something terrible happened."
I smooth down Lysa's tangled curls, my fingers working through the knots with practiced gentleness. Her small face tilts up toward mine, tears still clinging to her dark lashes like dewdrops.
"Nothing terrible has happened." I cup her face between my palms, meeting her wide hazel eyes. "I'm going to work here for Lord Morvath, and he's going to let us all live here in exchange for wages."
Tobin pulls back from my shoulder, his freckled nose scrunched in confusion. "Live here? In the big house?"
"That's right." I turn to Bran, whose green eyes still burn with suspicion as they dart between me and Lord Morvath. "We'll have proper beds and regular meals. No more wondering where our next supper will come from."
Bran's jaw works silently, the weight of responsibility he's carried for years warring with relief in his expression. His hands, still stained with dirt from morning farm work, clench and unclench at his sides.
"What kind of work?" His voice cracks slightly, betraying the boy beneath his protective facade.
"Household duties. Nothing I can't handle." I ruffle his dark hair, the same shade as mine. "But enough of that. Come to the kitchen and eat something. You all look ready to collapse."
I stand, brushing dust from my skirts, and reach for Lysa's hand. The promise of food brightens her face immediately—she's always been the hungriest of us, too young to understand why her stomach aches constantly.
"No."
Lord Morvath's voice cuts through our reunion like a knife through silk. I freeze, my hand halfway to Lysa's, as his pale grey gaze settles on me with unmistakable authority.
"They will eat with me in the dining room." He adjusts his dark coat with deliberate precision. "Halvren, make the arrangements."
The elderly steward materializes from the shadows as if summoned by magic, his lined face betraying nothing. "Of course, my lord. Shall I have Cook prepare additional portions?"
"See to it."
Bran steps protectively in front of Tobin and Lysa, his thin frame rigid with defiance. "We don't need your charity, elf. The kitchen's fine for the likes of us."
Lord Morvath's pale eyebrows lift fractionally, amusement flickering in those otherworldly eyes. "I wasn't aware I'd asked for your preferences."
The dining room stretches before us like a cathedral of wealth—mahogany panels gleaming in candlelight, portraits of stern-faced elves watching from gilded frames, and a table long enough to seat twenty.
Crystal glasses catch the light from an elaborate chandelier, throwing rainbow fragments across the pristine white cloth.
Lysa's mouth falls open as she takes in the splendor. "It's like a palace from the stories."
"Don't touch anything," Bran mutters, but his own eyes widen at the opulent display.
Lord Morvath settles at the head of the table with fluid grace, his silver hair catching the light like spun moonbeams. He gestures toward chairs clustered near his end, close enough for conversation but far enough to maintain the hierarchy between lord and servants.
A young maid appears with silent efficiency, setting fresh bowls before each of us.
Steam rises from the rich stew, carrying scents that make my siblings' stomachs growl audibly.
Thick chunks of beef swim in dark gravy alongside tender carrots and potatoes—more food than we've seen in weeks combined.
Tobin doesn't wait for permission. He grabs his spoon and dives in with the desperation of the truly starved, gravy dripping down his chin as he devours each bite. Lysa follows suit, her small hands trembling slightly as she lifts the heavy spoon.
Even Bran, despite his pride, can't resist the pull of genuine sustenance. He eats with forced restraint, trying to maintain dignity while his hollow cheeks work steadily.
Lord Morvath observes us in perfect silence, his own bowl untouched. Those grey eyes miss nothing—the way Tobin hoards bread rolls in his lap, how Lysa carefully saves the largest pieces of meat for last, the protective way Bran positions himself between his siblings and our host.
The only sounds are spoons against ceramic and the soft sighs of satisfaction that escape my siblings with each swallow.