9. Kessara
KESSARA
The silver cutlery catches the afternoon light as I arrange it beside each porcelain plate, but my eyes keep drifting toward the grand entrance hall visible through the dining room's arched doorway.
Any moment now, the heavy oak doors will swing open and three familiar voices will echo through the marble corridors, their chatter filling the vast spaces that still feel too large, too quiet without them.
Five days. Five endless days of watching them disappear down the cobblestone path each morning, their small figures growing smaller until they vanish around the bend toward town.
Five days of scribing endless columns of numbers in Lord Morvath's study, my hand cramping around the quill as I transcribe grain shipments and tenant payments while part of my mind remains tethered to three children walking among strangers.
The ledger work exhausts me in ways physical labor never did. By evening, the figures swim before my eyes like tadpoles in a pond, and I catch myself adding the same column twice or forgetting to carry over numbers from one page to the next.
"You'll bore holes through that door if you stare any harder."
I turn to find Jorik grinning at me from across the table, his arms full of folded napkins.
The zagfer's pointed ears twitch with amusement as he sets down his burden and begins placing the cream-colored linen beside each plate.
His movements carry the easy efficiency of someone who's performed this task countless times, unlike my own careful deliberation over fork placement.
"I'm not staring." The protest sounds weak even to my ears.
"Course not. Just happened to catch you checking that doorway for the fifteenth time in as many minutes." He smooths a napkin with practiced ease. "They'll be back soon enough, you know. School lets out at the same time every day."
Heat creeps up my neck as I focus on arranging the last few pieces of silverware. The knife goes on the right, blade facing inward. Or was it outward? I've watched the other staff set these tables for days, but the rules of noble dining still feel foreign on my tongue.
"I'm not used to being away from them for so long." The admission comes out before I can help it, vulnerability bleeding through my carefully maintained composure.
Jorik's expression softens, his teasing grin fading into something more understanding. "Raised them yourself, didn't you?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. The weight of those years presses against my chest—sleepless nights when Tobin ran fever, mornings when there wasn't enough food to go around, the constant fear that one mistake would tear us apart.
"Well, you're lucky then." He moves to the next chair, his tone matter-of-fact. "Lucky to be the subject of his lordship's generosity. Lord Morvath's got a reputation for taking care of what's his, and he wouldn't let any harm come to those little humans of yours."
The casual way he says 'his' makes my stomach flutter with something I can't recognize. Not fear, exactly, but not comfort either.
"So long as you do what you're told and keep your nose clean, he'll probably take care of them until they come of age. Maybe even find them positions here alongside the rest of us." Jorik straightens a wine glass with careful precision. "Better life than most humans can hope for in these parts."
I want to argue, to insist that we're not charity cases or pets to be cared for on a whim.
But the words lodge in my throat because he's right.
The children are eating regular meals, sleeping in warm beds, attending school like the merchant families' children.
Bran's shoulders have lost their perpetual hunch of hunger, and Lysa actually laughs now instead of just smiling quietly to avoid drawing attention.
The sound of approaching voices drifts through the entrance hall, young and wonderfully familiar.
Mrs. Aldren sweeps through the dining room like a woman on a mission, her greying hair pulled into its usual severe bun. She nods curtly at Jorik and me before disappearing through the servants' door toward the kitchen, her footsteps already quickening with purpose.
Then I hear them—three sets of familiar footsteps echoing through the entrance hall. But something feels wrong. The usual chatter that follows them home each day is absent, replaced by hushed whispers and the scuff of reluctant feet against marble.
Bran rounds the corner first, his shoulders rigid with tension. Lysa trails behind him, her wide eyes darting between her brother and the floor. Tobin brings up the rear, practically vibrating with the effort of keeping his mouth shut.
My heart clenches at the sight of their carefully neutral expressions. After years of reading every micro-expression, every shift in posture, I know when my siblings are hiding something.
"How was school today?"
"Fine." The word comes out too quickly from all three of them, a chorus of forced casualness that immediately sets my teeth on edge.
Lysa's gaze flickers toward the doorway just as Lord Zerion strides into the dining room, an open ledger balanced in one hand. He settles into his usual chair at the head of the table with fluid grace, pale grey eyes scanning the pages as if nothing in the world could disturb his concentration.
But I see the way Tobin's eyes widen when he spots the dark elf lord, and how Bran's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
I plant my hands on my hips and summon the voice that once made all four of us freeze in our tracks when Mother used it. The voice that could cut through any excuse or deflection with surgical precision.
"What. Happened."
The silence stretches for exactly three heartbeats before Tobin cracks like an egg hitting stone.
"The teacher said she might expel Bran from school for getting into a fight!"
The words tumble forth in a rush, and my stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles.
I whip around to face Bran, really looking at him for the first time since he walked in.
His dark hair hangs loose around his face instead of the neat bun I'd tied back this morning, and he's holding his head at an odd angle.
"Bran!"
I reach for him, but he tries to dodge away. My hands are faster, catching his chin and tilting his face toward the light. He swats at my fingers, but I brush his hair aside and reveal the damage—a bruise blooming purple and black along his jaw, the skin swollen and tender.
"Bran! What happened? You know better than to do something so reckless!"
He yanks away from my grip, his green eyes flashing with the same stubborn fire I see in my own reflection.
"I was defending you from those foul-mouthed, spoon-fed, spoiled elven bastards."
The words ring through the dining room like a bell, and I watch in horror as his gaze slides down the length of the table to where Lord Zerion sits, still absorbed in his ledger.
"Er... my apologies, Lord Morvath."
Zerion glances up from his books, those ghostly eyes taking in the scene with calm assessment.
His shoulders rise and fall in the barest suggestion of a shrug before he returns his attention to the pages before him, as if thirteen-year-old human boys calling his entire race bastards happens every other day.
Which, to be fair, it does whether or not he realizes.
I grab Bran's shoulders, forcing him to meet my eyes. The bruise on his jaw looks worse up close, the skin mottled and swollen.
"Listen to me, all of you. It doesn't matter what they say about me. Do you understand? It doesn't matter if they call me every name in the book or spread lies about what I do here. You never, ever give them reason to hurt you."
Bran's jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath the bruised skin. "So I'm supposed to just stand there while they—"
"Yes." The word cracks through the air like a whip.
"You stand there and you ignore it, because the moment you raise your hand against one of them, they have every excuse they need to do worse than bruise your face.
They could have you arrested, Bran. They could have you all thrown out of school, out of this house, out of town entirely. "
My voice drops to a whisper, but every word carries the oppressive weight of years spent watching humans disappear for lesser offenses.
"I won't lose any of you to your pride. Not when we finally have somewhere safe."
Lysa lets out a sound that makes my blood freeze—a bitter laugh that belongs on the lips of someone three times her age. She walks past us toward the dining table, her small shoulders rigid with an attitude I've never seen from her before.
"Safe." She sets her school notebook beside her usual place setting with a slap. "Right. Because it's not like we're going to make friends with anyone anyway."
The casual bitterness in her voice shocks me so much that I can only stand there with my jaw nearly hitting the floor. This is my Lysa, who used to see magic in dandelion seeds and found reasons to smile even when her stomach cramped with hunger.
"All the other students were warned to stay away from us. Even the other humans." She slides into her chair and stares down at her empty plate. "I caught Curian Ashworth trying to put mud in my water cup during lunch. Mud, Kessa. Like I'm some kind of animal."
The words land like stones in my chest, each one heavier than the last. I'd hoped—gods, how foolishly I'd hoped—that they could just attend school like normal children. Study their letters and numbers, maybe even find a friend or two among the other human students.
Instead, they're targets. Outcasts. Marked by association with me and the choices I made to bring them here.
"Tobin." My voice comes out hollow, defeated. "Go sit with your brother and sister."
He scurries past me without his usual bounce, climbing into his chair with uncharacteristic quiet.
I move mechanically around the table, ladling soup into bowls and arranging bread on plates.
The familiar motions feel foreign now, weighted with the knowledge that every spoonful comes at the cost of my siblings' childhood.
I'm reaching for the wine decanter when Lord Zerion's voice stops me cold.
"Kessara."
I freeze, my hand halfway to the crystal vessel. His tone carries that particular note of quiet authority that makes every servant in the house jump to attention.
"Do I need to tell you again tonight?"
I turn slowly, keeping my gaze fixed on the polished marble floor. The pattern of veins in the stone blurs as tears threaten to spill over.
"Sir, servants are supposed to eat in the—"
"Sit."
The single word cuts through my protest like a blade through parchment. When I finally risk a glance up, those grey eyes pin me in place with unwavering intensity.
"Eat with your family."
Without a word, I sit across from the three of them, ladling my own soup and heaving a deep sigh before joining the sound of eating.