4. Zerion
ZERION
The ledger's neat columns blur before my eyes as I pretend to review the estate's quarterly accounts.
Four days have passed since the human girl began her employment, yet I've caught only fleeting glimpses of her—a flash of dark hair disappearing around a corner, the soft whisper of worn boots on marble stairs, the faint scent of orchard leaves that lingers in rooms after she's cleaned them.
My pen hovers above the parchment, ink threatening to drip and stain the careful calculations. The children remain equally invisible, as if the four of them have mastered the art of moving through my manor like ghosts.
I set down the pen and slump in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight. The afternoon light filters through the tall windows of my study, casting geometric patterns across the Persian rug. Dust motes dance in the golden beams, disturbed by some unseen current.
"Halvren!"
My voice carries through the door with authority. Within moments, the familiar shuffle of the steward's footsteps approaches, followed by a respectful knock.
"Enter."
The door swings open to reveal Halvren's lined face, his expression carefully neutral as he steps into the study. His grey hair is combed neatly despite the late hour, and his black uniform shows not a single wrinkle. Decades of service have taught him to read my moods with uncanny accuracy.
"You asked for me, my lord?"
I gesture toward the chair across from my desk, watching as he settles his aging frame with the careful movements of a man who has felt every one of his sixty-one years.
"The human girl. Kessara." I lean forward, steepling my fingers beneath my chin. "How does she fare in her duties?"
Halvren's weathered hands smooth across his knees, a tell I've learned to recognize when he's choosing his words with particular care.
"She performs her assigned tasks without complaint, my lord. The chambers she tends are spotless, the silver polished to perfection, and she shows remarkable efficiency despite..." He pauses, his grey eyes meeting mine briefly before looking away.
"Despite what?"
"Her physical condition, my lord. Years of inadequate nutrition have left their mark. She tires more easily than the other staff, though she conceals it well. I've observed her pausing to catch her breath between floors, steadying herself against walls."
The image of her hollow cheeks and too-thin wrists flashes through my memory. I'd noted the way her clothes hung loose on her frame that first night, but hearing Halvren's clinical assessment stirs something uncomfortable in my chest.
"Has she requested additional rest periods? Lighter duties?"
"No, my lord." Halvren's response comes swiftly, tinged with what sounds like grudging respect. "If anything, she pushes herself beyond reasonable limits. I've had to order her to stop work on two occasions when exhaustion became apparent."
I rise and move to the window, watching the afternoon shadows lengthen across the manidcured grounds. The orchard wall where I first encountered her stretches in the distance, its stones warm and golden in the dying light.
"And the children? How do they adjust to manor life?"
Halvren shifts behind me, the leather chair creaking softly. When he speaks, his voice holds a note of puzzlement.
"That's where the situation becomes... peculiar, my lord."
I turn from the window, raising an eyebrow. "Peculiar how?"
"I haven't seen them. Not once since that first evening in the dining room.
" Halvren's fingers drum against his knee, a rare display of agitation.
"She keeps them sequestered in her quarters.
Takes their meals directly to them, handles their washing and mending personally.
The other servants whisper about how strange it is. "
"Surely they venture out occasionally. To the kitchens? The gardens?"
"Never, my lord. She guards them with the vigilance of a she-wolf protecting her cubs. When I inquired about their well-being, she assured me they were perfectly content and required no additional accommodations."
I return to my chair, the leather sighing beneath me. The protective instinct she displays doesn't surprise me—I witnessed it firsthand during her capture. But this level of isolation suggests something deeper than mere caution.
"Has anyone attempted to visit them? The cook perhaps, or one of the maids? A healer?"
Halvren's mouth twitches with what might be amusement. "Young Clara tried yesterday. She thought to bring the little girl some honey cakes. Kessara intercepted her at the door and politely but firmly declined the gesture. Clara described her manner as 'pleasant but immovable as granite.'"
The conversation leaves more questions than answers. Perhaps Kessara doesn't trust my word regarding her safety—or her siblings' welfare. The thought shouldn't sting, yet it does. I am, after all, a dark elf who caught her stealing from my estate. Her wariness makes perfect sense.
What doesn't make sense is this growing concern for four humans who should mean nothing to me. Technically worthless, as my noble peers would say. Yet here I sit, contemplating their comfort with the dedication I once reserved for estate ledgers and trade negotiations.
"Summon Kessara and Captain Draven to my study."
"At once, my lord."
Halvren's footsteps fade down the corridor, leaving me with thoughts that refuse to settle into their usual ordered patterns.
The knock comes sooner than expected—two firm taps striking wood with distinction.
"Enter."
Captain Draven steps through first, his weathered face set in its customary stern expression. Behind him, Kessara follows with the careful posture of someone expecting trouble. Her hazel eyes meet mine briefly before dropping to the fur rug beneath her worn boots.
The words I'd planned to speak—demands about her isolation, questions about her siblings' well-being—die in my throat.
She looks homeless. Tattered. The same patched dress hangs from her thin frame, the fabric more holes than cloth. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and her skin carries the pallor of exhaustion. Four days in my household, and she appears worse than when I found her stealing fruit.
Draven clears his throat, the sound sharp in the sudden silence.
I realize I've been staring. Heat crawls up my neck—an unfamiliar sensation that irritates more than embarrasses.
"You look terrible."
Kessara's spine straightens, her chin lifting with that familiar defiance. "I perform my duties adequately, my lord."
"That's not the point." I stand, moving to the safe beside my desk. The iron hinges protest as I pull it open. "You give the impression that I don't take care of my staff."
My fingers find an empty coin purse on the desk—soft leather worn smooth by countless transactions. The coins in the safe clink together as I scoop out a generous handful of dalers, dropping them into the pouch with deliberate weight.
"Pick up fresh candles from the market. And clothes. For yourself and the children."
Kessara's hands remain firmly at her sides. "That's not necessary—"
"I don't care to listen to refusals." I cinch the purse strings tight and hold it out to her. "Captain Draven will escort you."
Draven shifts beside her, his armor plates scraping together. "My lord, this arrangement is likely to cause issues. A human woman under guard escort, spending your coin—"
My palms slam against the desktop with enough impact to rattle the inkwell. "I won't be questioned in my own house."
Both figures before me bow their heads in unison.
"Yes, my lord."
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Good. Now go."
They turn and walk out, the doors closing gently behind them.
"Now," I murmur, "the children."