29. Kessara
KESSARA
The final piece of silverware clicks against the polished oak as I set the last fork in its proper place.
The dining hall gleams under the chandelier's warm light, every surface reflecting the care Mrs. Aldren and I have put into preparing the evening meal.
The storm outside makes the manor feel like a fortress of warmth and safety, though the constant rumble of thunder keeps my nerves on edge.
I smooth my hands down my apron and turn toward the older elven woman arranging fresh flowers in the center vase. Her silver hair catches the light as she adjusts a particularly stubborn stem with the precision of someone who has been managing household details for decades.
"Mrs. Aldren, have the children come in yet?"
She pauses in her flower arranging, her weathered fingers still holding the wayward bloom. A frown creases her lined face as she glances toward the garden doors, where rain now pelts the glass with increasing violence.
"Not yet, dear." Her voice carries the disapproval of someone who has raised enough children to know better. "Those little ones will catch their death if they stay out there much longer. Mark my words, they'll all be sniffling and coughing by morning."
The knot in my stomach tightens as I follow her gaze toward the doors. When I gave them permission to play outside, the sky had been merely overcast with the promise of rain still hours away. Now the storm rages with a fury that turns peaceful gardens into muddy battlefields.
I cross the dining hall with quick steps, my boots clicking on the stone floor.
The brass handles feel cold beneath my palms as I pull the heavy doors open, immediately gasping as wind and rain assault my face like icy needles.
The covered porch provides little protection against the storm's violence—droplets spray past the awning to soak my hair and the front of my dress.
"Children!"
My voice disappears into the howling wind before it travels more than a few feet. The garden beyond the porch steps has transformed into a gray blur of swaying trees and sheets of rain so thick I can barely make out the fountain they were racing toward earlier.
I lift one foot to step down onto the rain-slicked stone steps when a cheerful voice stops me.
"Mistress Kessara!"
Jorik appears from the side corridor, his dark hair already damp from whatever errand brought him outside. Despite the chaos of the storm, his face wears its usual pleasant expression, though concern flickers in his brown eyes as he takes in my position at the doorway.
"Please, stay out of this weather. I'll fetch the little lads and lass before they turn into drowned rats."
Relief floods through me at his offer. The zagfer has always been kind to the children, treating them with the same gentle patience he shows everyone in the household.
"Thank you, Jorik. They were racing to the fountain and back—you know how they get when they're excited about something."
He nods with the understanding smile of someone who has watched children test every boundary they encounter. "Aye, little ones never think the rain will actually catch them. I'll have them inside and dried off before you can blink."
Without another word, he plunges down the steps and into the storm's fury.
I watch his figure grow smaller as he jogs along the same gravel path where I last saw Bran leading his siblings in their ridiculous competition.
The rain swallows him within moments, leaving only the impression of movement in the gray chaos beyond.
I retreat from the doorway but remain on the covered porch, my fingers twisting together as minutes stretch like hours. The storm shows no signs of weakening—if anything, the wind seems to grow stronger with every passing moment, sending debris skittering across the courtyard stones.
My feet begin wearing a path along the porch boards as anxiety builds within me like a living thing with claws.
When Jorik emerges from the garden alone, his clothes plastered to his lean frame and his dark hair dripping streams down his face, something cold and vicious coils in my gut like a serpent made of ice.
"You're certain they went to the fountain?"
His voice carries a breathless quality that makes my chest tighten with dread. Rain continues to batter his shoulders as he stands in the doorway, his brown eyes wide with a concern that confirms my worst fears.
"Yes! Certain of it!"
The words tear from my throat at a pitch that sounds foreign to my own ears—too high, too sharp, like the cry of some wounded animal. My hands shake as I push past him toward the garden steps.
"Mistress, please—"
His fingers close around my wrist with gentle but firm pressure, the calluses on his palm rough against my skin. The restraint sends panic flooding through my veins like liquid fire.
"Those are my siblings, Jorik, I'm going to find them!"
I wrench my arm from his grasp with enough force that he stumbles backward a step. The zagfer's face creases with worry as he reaches for me again.
"The storm could knock you senseless, or you could catch your death of fever in this weather—"
"Let me go!"
I twist away from his second attempt to hold me back and plunge down the stone steps into the garden's chaos.
The rain hits me like a painful physical blow, instantly soaking through my dress and plastering my hair against my skull.
Behind me, Jorik's voice carries my name through the howling wind, but I'm already running along the gravel path toward the fountain.
"Bran! Lysa! Tobin!"
Each shout scrapes my throat raw as panic clamps around my windpipe like iron bands. The familiar garden has transformed into an alien landscape of swaying shadows and treacherous footing. Water streams down my face, mixing rain with tears I refuse to acknowledge.
"Answer me! Where are you?"
My boots slip on the wet stones as I round the fountain's base, searching frantically for any sign of three small figures. The decorative basin overflows with rainwater, creating muddy streams that snake between the flower beds like miniature rivers.
The path curves toward the orchard wall, and I follow it at a desperate pace that makes my lungs burn. Branches whip across my face as I push through the landscaped shrubs, their leaves heavy with water that dumps fresh torrents down my back.
"Children, please!"
My foot catches on something hidden beneath the saturated grass—a tree root, perhaps, or a decorative stone border. The world tilts sideways as I crash down into the muddy earth, my skirts tangling around my legs and my palms scraping against gravel.
Thick mud coats my hands and knees as I struggle to push myself upright, my boots sliding uselessly against the slick ground. The weight of my waterlogged dress drags at my movements like lead chains.
Two strong arms slide beneath mine, hauling me to my feet with effortless strength. I know those hands before I even turn to see Zerion's sharp features through the curtain of rain.
"Are you hurt?"
His voice permeates the storm's roar with an authority that demands immediate attention. pale grey eyes scan my face with clinical precision, searching for signs of injury.
"The children! I have to find them!"
The words pour from me in a broken sob as I try to pull away from his grip. His fingers tighten around my arms, holding me steady against the wind that threatens to knock me sideways.
"It's too dangerous. You could break your neck stumbling around in this weather."
"I don't care about the danger!"
I throw my weight against his hold, twisting and pulling like a wild thing caught in a snare. The effort proves futile—his strength makes my struggles seem childish.
"Let me go this instant!"
The world spins as he hoists me over his shoulder in one fluid motion, my muddy boots kicking uselessly at his back. Blood rushes to my head as I pound my fists against his spine, shouting protests that the wind swallows before they travel more than a few feet.
Through my upside-down view, I catch sight of Captain Draven's imposing figure near the manor entrance, flanked by Halvren and what appears to be most of the estate's guards and household staff. They stand in formation despite the storm, awaiting orders with the discipline of soldiers.
"Search the entire estate."
Zerion's command carries absolute authority even as rain streams from his silver hair. "Leave no stone unturned. Find those children."
The assembled group disperses immediately, spreading across the grounds like hunting hounds released from their leash. I watch them disappear into the storm's gray chaos as Zerion strides toward the manor with determined steps, my protests lost in the thunder's endless rumble.
The covered porch feels like a cage as Zerion sets me down, his hands remaining firm on my shoulders to prevent another escape attempt. Water drips from my soaked hair onto the stone floor, creating small puddles that reflect the lamplight streaming from the manor's windows.
"What in the abyss were you thinking, running into a storm like that?"
His pale eyes blaze with fury as he towers over me, rain still streaming from his silver hair. The controlled mask he usually wears has cracked, revealing something raw and dangerous beneath.
"I was thinking about my little siblings!"
The words explode from me, causing him to step back. My chest heaves as I struggle to catch my breath, my waterlogged dress clinging to my skin like a second layer of ice.
"I was thinking about how no one can find them, and they're out there somewhere in this storm, probably terrified and alone!"
My voice breaks apart on the last word, but I refuse to let the tears fall. Not now. Not when they need me to be strong.
"So you decided to stumble around blindly in weather that could kill you?" Zerion's tone carries the sharp edge of someone barely restraining himself from shaking sense into me. "What good would you be to them dead?"
"Better than standing here doing nothing while they're missing!"
I lunge toward the garden steps again, but his arm shoots out to block my path. The solid wall of his forearm stops me as effectively as an iron bar.
"I'm going to look for them, Zerion. You can't stop me."
"You will do no such thing."
The words crack like a whip, carrying absolute authority that makes the air between us thrum with tension. His eyes narrow to grey slits as he steps closer, using his height to emphasize the command.
"You will remain here where it's safe while my guards conduct a proper search."
"Safe?" I laugh, the sound bitter and sharp enough to cut glass. "Safe while my family disappears? Safe while three children who depend on me are gods know where?"
"They are not your responsibility alone anymore—"
"They are my responsibility! They've been my responsibility since our parents died, and I won't abandon them now because some storm makes you nervous!"
The wind howls around the porch's supports, sending fresh sprays of rain across the stone floor. In the distance, I can hear voices calling through the storm—guards searching the grounds with methodical precision.
"Your reckless heroics will accomplish nothing except getting yourself killed."
Zerion's voice drops to that dangerous quiet that usually precedes violence. "I will not watch you throw your life away on a foolish—"
Heavy boots pound against the stone steps, cutting through our argument like a blade. A guard emerges from the storm's gray chaos, his armor streaming with water and his face grim with purpose. He clutches something dark in his gloved fist.
"My lord!"
The man's voice carries urgency that makes ice form in my veins. He stumbles up the final step, breathing hard from whatever sprint brought him here through the storm.
As he draws closer, lamplight illuminates the object in his hand. The leather is scuffed and worn, with familiar scratches along the toe and a distinctive patch where Lysa mended a tear with careful stitches.
Bran's shoe.
The sound that escapes my throat belongs to some wounded animal—raw, broken, inhuman. My knees buckle as though someone has severed the strings holding me upright, and I crumple toward the stone floor like a marionette with cut strings.
They're gone.
My family has been taken.