13. Kessara
KESSARA
The library door clicks shut behind me, leaving Master Ramin's droning voice and my siblings' scratching quills safely contained within those book-lined walls.
Bran had actually smiled when I checked his penmanship this morning—a genuine expression rather than the forced cheer he's worn since the school incident.
Perhaps having lessons here instead of enduring daily humiliation among his peers suits him better than I'd expected.
I turn toward the main corridor, already mentally cataloguing the morning's tasks, when Master Halvren's familiar silhouette blocks my path.
The steward stands with his customary perfect posture, hands clasped behind his back and that unreadable expression that's served him through decades of managing this estate.
We've barely spoken since those first awkward days when he assigned us rooms and explained the household rules—our interactions limited to polite nods when we pass in the corridors.
Seeing him waiting here, clearly intending conversation, sends an uncomfortable prickle up my spine.
"Miss Kessara." He extends a folded paper toward me with the same measured precision he brings to everything else. "We find ourselves in need of several supplies that cannot be procured from the estate grounds."
I accept the list, scanning the neat handwriting that details cleaning materials and cooking ingredients. Nothing unusual or expensive, but the timing feels deliberate. "Of course. I'll gather these this afternoon."
"The carriage awaits you at the front entrance." His tone carries that particular neutrality that suggests orders from higher authority. "Captain Draven has been assigned to accompany you."
My fingers tighten on the paper. Of course Zerion arranged this—probably thanks to our conversation yesterday about not wanting me to hide behind his estate walls. The man's protective instincts manifest in the most infuriatingly high-handed ways.
"How thoughtful of his lordship to consider me for his shopping needs."
Halvren's mouth twitches almost imperceptibly—the closest thing to a smile I've ever witnessed from him. "His lordship is indeed... thorough in his considerations."
I fold the list and tuck it into my skirt pocket, already resigned to another performance for the townspeople's entertainment. "I suppose keeping the captain waiting would be poor manners."
"Indeed it would."
The steward steps aside with a slight bow, his formal courtesy somehow managing to convey both respect and gentle dismissal.
I make my way through the manor's corridors toward the front entrance, my footsteps echoing off stone walls that have grown familiar over these past weeks.
The tapestries and carved details that once intimidated me now feel like markers of a home I never expected to claim.
Sunlight streams through the windows flanking the main doors, revealing dust motes dancing in the afternoon air. Beyond the glass, I spot the estate carriage—a practical vehicle built for durability rather than ostentation, much like everything else Zerion chooses to surround himself with.
Captain Draven stands beside the carriage door, his weathered features set in their usual stern expression.
Another guard waits near the driver's seat, checking the equus' harness with professional efficiency.
Both men wear their practical armor and carry themselves with the alert bearing of soldiers who take their duties seriously.
I push through the heavy doors and approach them, already preparing an apology for the inconvenience. "Captain Draven. I'm sorry you've been assigned babysitting duty again."
He turns toward me, those sharp eyes assessing my appearance with the same thoroughness he'd apply to evaluating potential threats. "No apology necessary, miss. Orders are orders."
His tone carries no resentment or frustration—just the matter-of-fact acceptance of a professional soldier following his commander's instructions. He moves to the carriage door and pulls it open, offering his hand to help me inside.
The gesture surprises me with its practiced courtesy. I accept his assistance, settling into the cushioned seat as he closes the door with a firm click., I watch him exchange brief words with the other guard before climbing up beside the driver.
We lurch into motion, carrying us down the winding drive toward the estate gates and the town beyond.
I lean back against the seat, already steeling myself for another round of whispered comments and pointed stares from shopkeepers who view my presence here as either scandalous entertainment or personal affront.
The carriage wheels crunch to a stop on the cobblestones, and I gather my resolve along with Halvren's list. Captain Draven appears at the door before I can reach for the handle, offering his hand with the same professional courtesy he showed at the manor.
"Thank you." I step down onto the street, already aware of heads turning in our direction.
"I'll maintain distance but remain within sight," he says quietly. "Take your time with the purchases."
I nod and square my shoulders, walking toward the first shop with what I hope appears to be casual confidence. Behind me, Draven's measured footsteps follow at a respectful interval—close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to avoid appearing threatening to the merchants.
The bakery proves mercifully straightforward.
The proprietor accepts my coin with polite efficiency, though I catch her curious glances toward my escort.
The apothecary requires more negotiation for the cleaning supplies, but the elderly woman behind the counter seems more interested in the quality of my coin than the source of it.
By the time I reach the spice merchant's stall in the market square, I've almost convinced myself this outing might pass without incident. The merchant—a round-faced man with shrewd eyes and flour-dusted apron—examines Halvren's list with exaggerated attention.
"Salt, black pepper, dried herbs." He names each item while gathering them into small parcels. "Quality ingredients for a quality household, I suppose."
I hand over the required coins, keeping my expression neutral. "Indeed."
He pockets the money but doesn't release the parcels, his voice rising just enough to carry to nearby shoppers. "Must be generous pay, working for his lordship. Generous enough to make sharing his bed worthwhile, I'd wager."
The words hit like a slap, drawing sharp intakes of breath from the women browsing nearby stalls. Heat flushes my cheeks, but I’m forced to meet his smug gaze directly just as Captain Draven takes a threatening step toward us.
"You'd be wise to mind your manners when conducting business." I keep my voice level despite the fury building in my chest. "Particularly when that business depends entirely on Lord Morvath's goodwill."
His face reddens. "I don't need—"
"Since I'm the one running his errands, I decide where his coin goes." I lean forward slightly, letting steel creep into my tone. "And should Lord Morvath hear of disrespect shown to his name, well—he holds ultimate authority over those living on his land."
The merchant's bluster falters as the implications sink in. Around us, the gathered crowd exchanges nervous glances, their whispered conversations taking on a different quality entirely.
"You think you can threaten me, you little whore?" His voice cracks with indignation. "Everyone knows what you are—what you're doing in that manor!"
"What I am," I reply with crystalline clarity, "is someone Lord Morvath trusts with his business. What you are is someone who just insulted his judgment."
The merchant's face contorts with rage, spittle flying as his voice climbs to a shriek. "Threaten me? You think your dark elf protector scares me? Everyone knows what services you're providing him—warming his bed like the common whore you are!"
The gathered crowd murmurs and shifts, their whispers carrying fragments I catch despite my thundering pulse. "Lord Morvath's human..." "...shameless, really..." "...what else would she be doing there..."
I snatch the parcels from his trembling hands before he can think to withhold them further. "Keep talking. I'm sure Lord Morvath will find your opinions fascinating."
"Let him come!" The merchant's voice cracks as he gestures wildly to the onlookers. "We all know what she is—what they both are! A dark elf who thinks he can corrupt our women, and a slut who spreads her legs for coin!"
The crowd's murmurs turn uglier, emboldened by his crude words. Several women nod approvingly while their husbands exchange knowing looks. My cheeks burn, but I will myself to gather the remaining supplies with steady hands.
"You've made your position clear." I turn toward where Captain Draven waits, his weathered face stone-cold as he watches the spectacle. "I trust Lord Morvath will remember your hospitality."
The merchant shouts after me, his voice carrying across the entire market square. "Run back to your master, whore! Tell him what decent people think of his human pet!"
I stride toward the carriage without looking back, even as more voices join the chorus behind me. "Disgusting..." "...no shame at all..." "...ought to be driven out..."
Captain Draven falls into step beside me, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt as several men from the crowd begin following us. The gesture proves enough to discourage pursuit, but their jeers continue until we reach the carriage.
"Inside," he says curtly, yanking the door open.
I climb up without argument, my hands shaking as I arrange the packages on the seat. Through the window, I watch Draven exchange sharp words with the driver before swinging up beside him. The carriage lurches into motion with more haste than our leisurely arrival.
The return journey passes in tense silence, my mind replaying every ugly word while fury and humiliation war in my chest. By the time we approach the estate gates, I've managed to stop trembling, though my jaw still aches from clenching it.
We roll to a stop at the gates, and I hear Captain Draven's voice through the window, low and urgent as he speaks to the guards stationed there.
"...merchant caused a scene in the market square. Whole crowd heard him shouting insults about Miss Kessara and his lordship..."
"How bad?" One of the gate guards responds.
"Bad enough. Word will spread before sunset."