7. Kessara
KESSARA
The sharp rap against our door cuts through the pre-dawn darkness like a blade. I jolt upright, heart hammering against my ribcage as my eyes strain to make sense of the shadows. The knock comes again—three measured strikes that carry unmistakable authority.
"Get up. All of you. Dress and meet me in the grand hall."
Lord Morvath's voice penetrates the wooden door with crisp efficiency. No explanation, no pleasantries. Just commands delivered with the expectation of immediate compliance.
I scramble from the narrow bed, bare feet hitting cold stone. Around me, my siblings stir with sleepy confusion. Lysa's dark curls peek above her blanket like a small bird's nest, while Tobin rubs his eyes with the back of his hand.
"What's happening?" Bran's voice cracks with the remnants of sleep and worry.
"I don't know." I pull on my new skirt with fumbling fingers, the fabric still stiff from the seamstress. "But we need to move. Now."
The children dress as quick as they can—no wasted movements, no complaints about the early hour. Within minutes, we pad through the corridors toward the grand hall, our footsteps echoing against stone walls adorned with tapestries that cost more than we'd seen in our entire lives.
Lord Morvath stands before the massive fireplace, his silver hair catching the light from the flames.
He's already dressed in his usual dark coat, looking as composed as if it were midday rather than barely past sunrise.
His grey eyes track our approach with that unsettling intensity that makes me feel like prey under a hawk's gaze.
"The three of them will start attending the local school today."
The words pierce me like a painful physical blow. I blink, certain I've misheard.
"School?"
"You won't be the only humans there." His tone remains matter-of-fact, as if announcing the weather. "Other noble houses find it practical to educate their future staff."
My mind reels. I know he mentioned it when he gave me the job, I just didn't think he would follow through.
School means books, learning, opportunities I'd never dared imagine for them.
But it also means separation, hours where I can't watch over them, protect them from whatever cruelties the world might offer.
"Is this really wise?" The question slips before I can stop it. "They're not used to—"
His gaze cuts to me with laser precision. The weight of total authority settles over the room like a suffocating blanket. My words die in my throat.
"It's not a request."
Movement near the hall's entrance draws my attention. An older housemaid with graying brown hair and kind eyes waits by the door, her hands clasped patiently before her. She offers the children a gentle smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Mrs. Aldren will escort them this morning."
I take a step toward my siblings, protective instincts flaring. "I should go with them. Help them settle in—"
"You have other duties today."
The finality in his voice stops me cold. My hands clench into fists at my sides, nails digging crescents into my palms. Every fiber of my being screams against letting them walk out that door without me.
But I have no choice. We have no choice.
I kneel before each of them in turn, pressing kisses to their foreheads with fierce tenderness. Lysa's small arms wrap around my neck, clinging with the desperation of a child who senses change coming whether she understands it or not.
"Remember what I taught you." My voice emerges steadier than I feel. "Stay together. Look out for each other. Mind your manners."
Bran nods with the solemn gravity of a boy forced to grow up too fast. His green eyes hold mine with silent promise—he'll protect them, just as I've protected him.
"We'll be fine, Kessa." But his voice wavers slightly, betraying the uncertainty beneath his brave words.
I watch them file out behind Mrs. Aldren, their small figures disappearing through the grand doorway like ships sailing into unknown waters. The hall feels cavernously empty without their chatter, their presence, their need for me.
Lord Morvath's boots click against stone as he approaches, but I keep my gaze fixed on the empty doorway where they vanished.
I turn toward him, forcing my shoulders back despite the hollow ache in my chest from watching my siblings disappear.
"You have a job for me, My Lord?"
He nods once, those pale grey eyes studying my face with unsettling thoroughness. "Can you read and write?"
The question catches me off guard. Most nobles assume humans like me are illiterate, barely capable of understanding spoken commands, let alone handling written words.
"Perhaps not as well as you, but yes."
Another nod, this one accompanied by the slightest tilt of his head toward the corridor. "Come with me."
I follow him through the maze of hallways, past portraits of stern-faced dark elves whose painted eyes seem to track our movement.
The study he leads me to reeks of old leather and ink, its walls lined floor-to-ceiling with books that cost more than entire villages.
Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that dance like tiny spirits in the air.
Lord Morvath rounds his massive oak desk and settles into his chair with a fluid grace.
The leather creaks softly as he leans forward, pulling open a drawer with deliberate precision.
He withdraws a stack of books—ledgers, I realize—and drops them onto the desk's surface with a solid thunk that makes me flinch.
"I want these transcribed to new books. More organized."
I step closer, peering at the worn covers and yellowed pages that peek from between them. The handwriting visible on the exposed pages looks cramped and hurried, numbers and notes scrawled in what look like three different scripts.
"You might be better off having someone more well-read do this for you." The words tumble out before I’m able to stop them, worry gnawing at my stomach. "I could mess something up, misread a figure or—"
His gaze locks onto mine with laser intensity, cutting through my rambling like a sharp blade through silk. The weight of his attention settles over me, heavy and inescapable.
"I want you to do it. No one else."
The finality in his voice brooks no argument. I reach for the stack of ledgers, fingers closing around the worn leather binding of the top book. The weight surprises me—these aren't simple household accounts but substantial records spanning what looks like years.
"Where are you going?"
His question stops me mid-step, one foot already turned toward the door. A chill runs down my spine like ice water, raising gooseflesh along my arms.
"To scribe these ledgers, My Lord."
"You will sit here and do them." His voice carries that same measured authority that sent my siblings off to school without protest. "Those books are not allowed to leave this room."
Heat floods my neck and face in a rush that makes my skin prickle. Hours. I'll have to spend hours in here, trapped in the same space with him, feeling those ghostly eyes track my every movement while I struggle through his records.
I nod stiffly and settle into the chair positioned beside his desk, pulling the first ledger toward me. The leather binding creaks as I open it, revealing pages dense with cramped handwriting and columns of figures that blur together in the morning light.
The work proves tedious but manageable. Numbers flow from one page to another in neat rows—grain purchases, livestock sales, wages paid to field hands. My hand moves steadily across fresh parchment, translating the chaotic scrawl into organized columns that actually make sense.
Minutes crawl into hours. The sun shifts higher through tall windows, casting different shadows across the desk as I labor through page after page.
My fingers begin to ache from gripping the quill, knuckles stiff from the repetitive motion of forming letters and numbers.
A dull throb settles into my wrist, radiating up my forearm with each stroke of ink.
But at least the work doesn't make me dizzy. Unlike scrubbing floors or hauling laundry, this task lets me remain seated, lets me breathe normally without the lightheaded spells that sometimes plague me when I haven't eaten enough. Small mercies.
Lord Morvath remains at his desk throughout, occasionally shuffling through his own papers or making notes with a different quill.
The scratch of his pen provides counterpoint to mine, a strange sort of companionable silence settling over the study.
I steal glances at him when I think he's not looking—the way his silver hair catches the light, how his grey eyes track across whatever document holds his attention.
"Halvren!"
His sudden shout shatters the quiet like glass hitting stone. I gasp, my hand jerking across the page and leaving an ugly ink blot where a neat figure should be. The quill tumbles from my fingers, clattering against the desktop.
Heat blooms in my cheeks as I stare at the ruined entry. Hours of careful work, and now I'll have to start this entire page over because—
"My apologies." His voice carries genuine regret, softer than his usual commanding tone. "I didn't mean to startle you."
The study door opens before I can respond, admitting Master Halvren with the punctuality of a man who has spent decades anticipating his lord's needs. His gray beard is perfectly trimmed, his vest spotless despite the early hour.
"Yes, My Lord?"
"Bring a platter of refreshments. Something substantial." Lord Morvath's gaze flicks to me, then back to his steward. "Water as well. For both of us."
My spine stiffens. "That isn't necessary—"
"It is."
The finality in those two words cuts through my protest like a blade. Master Halvren nods once and disappears as efficiently as he arrived, leaving me all alone with Lord Morvath once again.
I pick up the fallen quill, testing its tip against a scrap of parchment. Still functional, thankfully.
His matter-of-fact tone makes it sound like the most reasonable thing in the world, as if providing for his people is simply another duty to be discharged with the same efficiency he applies to everything else.
I bend back over the ledger, carefully beginning the ruined page anew.
But questions swirl through my mind like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind.
Everything I've heard about dark elves speaks of cruelty, of cold indifference to human suffering.
Yet here sits one who ensures his human employees eat regularly, who sends children to school, who apologizes for startling a lowly thief-turned-scribe.
How does a man from such a heartless race manage to be so... kind?