30. Zerion
ZERION
The sound that tears from Kessara's throat carves something vital from my chest. In one hundred and sixty-eight years of existence, through wars and betrayals and the slow death of everything I once held dear, I have never heard anguish distilled into such pure, devastating music.
My arms catch her before she strikes the stone, her body folding against mine like a bird with broken wings.
The guard's face bleaches white as he realizes what his discovery has done—how the sight of that small, battered shoe has shattered the woman in my arms into pieces sharp enough to draw blood.
"Inside. Now."
I lift Kessara against my chest, her waterlogged dress streaming rivulets across the porch stones.
She weighs nothing, lighter than she should be despite the nourishment of recent months.
Her frame shakes with violent tremors that have nothing to do with the cold rain plastering her hair to her skull.
The library offers the closest sanctuary, its stone hearth already blazing with warmth that seems insufficient against the ice spreading through my veins. I settle into the leather chair beside the fire, keeping Kessara cradled against me as her sobs rack through both our bodies.
"Fetch a blanket from the hall chest. And find Captain Draven immediately. Tell him to report here with whatever information he has."
"Yes, my lord."
The guard nods and disappears, his armor clanking with the urgency of someone desperate to contribute something useful.
Water pools beneath his boots, marking his path across the polished wood floors.
His footsteps fade into the manor's depths as I turn my attention to the woman destroying herself against my chest. Her fingers claw at my coat with desperate strength, seeking purchase against grief that threatens to drown us both.
"They'll be found, sweet."
The words feel hollow even as I speak them, inadequate offerings against the magnitude of her terror. Her hazel eyes, usually so sharp and defiant, have gone glassy with shock.
"I should have watched them closer. Should have kept them inside when the storm began."
"This is not your fault."
My voice carries conviction I wish I felt, but doubt gnaws at my certainty like acid. If I had acted sooner against Selmyra's scheming, if I had taken the threats more seriously, if I had protected them properly—
The library doors burst open, rattling the hinges. Draven strides through the entrance, his armor streaming water and his weathered face grim with purpose. The guard follows close behind, clutching a thick wool blanket that he thrusts toward me with trembling hands.
I wrap the fabric around Kessara's shaking form, pulling the edges tight beneath her chin. She burrows deeper against my chest, her breathing shallow and rapid like a cornered animal's.
"Report."
Draven's boots squelch against the floor as he positions himself before the fireplace, his gray-streaked hair plastered to his skull and his expression darker than the storm outside.
"We found the breach, my lord. Southern wall of the orchard, near the old oak grove."
His words land like physical blows, each syllable confirming what I already suspected but hoped against. Someone planned this. Someone waited for the perfect opportunity to strike at the heart of everything I've claimed as mine.
"The wall?"
"Destroyed by magical force. Clean break, precise targeting. Whoever did this knew exactly where to strike and how much power to use."
The methodical nature of the attack sends cold fury spiraling through my chest. This was no crime of opportunity, no random violence born from desperation or greed. Someone studied my defenses, mapped my routines, and chose the moment when the children would be most vulnerable.
"My babies..."
Kessara's broken whisper cuts through my analysis like a blade between ribs. Her voice carries the essence of every nightmare that has ever haunted a parent's sleep, every fear that claws at the edges of protective love.
I tighten my arms around her trembling form, pulling her closer against the inadequate warmth of my body. The scent of rain and terror clings to her skin, mixing with the familiar fragrance that has become as necessary to me as breathing.
"They're alive, sweet. They have to be."
The words taste like ash on my tongue, but I force them out anyway. Hope is all I can offer her now, fragile and desperate as it feels against the evidence mounting around us.
Draven's expression grows grimmer as he continues his report, each detail driving fresh spikes of rage through my composure.
"The magical signature suggests dark elf involvement, my lord. This level of precision requires training and resources beyond what common criminals possess."
Selmyra. Her name burns through my thoughts like poison, carrying with it the promise of retribution that will reshape the very landscape of this region. She has crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed, committed an act that demands payment in blood and screaming.
"Find them."
My voice emerges as something barely recognizable—a growl torn from depths I rarely acknowledge, carrying violence that makes even Draven's scarred features tighten with recognition.
"Tear this province apart stone by stone if necessary. Question everyone who has breathed the same air as those children in the past month."
The captain nods grimly, understanding flowing between us without need for further explanation. He has served long enough to recognize when diplomacy ends and warfare begins.
"And when we locate the perpetrators?"
"Slaughter anyone who was involved in this."
The words leave no room for mercy, no space for negotiation or half-measures. Someone has taken what belongs to me, threatened the fragile peace I've built in this place, and they will learn why dark elves once ruled empires through fear alone.
Kessara's sobs intensify against my chest, her body wracked with tremors that seem to originate from her very bones. I press my lips to her damp hair, tasting rain and terror and the salt of tears that have no end.
The fire crackles in its hearth, casting dancing shadows across the library walls where three children once sat for their lessons, safe and warm and utterly unaware of the dangers circling just beyond the estate's boundaries.
Now they are gone, stolen into the storm's fury, and I will burn the world to ash before I allow them to remain lost.
The small stuffed Thistle—a herd animal covered in wool—lies crushed between Kessara's cheek and the pillow, its wool matted with tears that finally stopped falling an hour ago.
Her breathing has evened into the shallow rhythm of exhausted sleep, but her fingers still clutch the toy with desperate intensity, as if releasing it might sever her last connection to her sister.
I ease myself onto the narrow bed beside her, careful not to disturb the fragile peace she's found.
The mattress dips under my weight, and she shifts unconsciously toward the warmth of my body, seeking comfort even in sleep.
Her dark hair spreads across the pillow in damp tangles, and I smooth the strands away from her face with fingers that tremble despite my efforts at control.
This is my fault. The thought carves through my chest like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. I knew Selmyra was planning something. I had reports, warnings, evidence of her schemes. And still I let this happen. Still I failed to protect three innocent children who trusted me to keep them safe.
The weight of that failure presses against my ribs until breathing becomes an effort. These children were under my roof, under my protection. They looked to me for safety, and I gave them nothing but false security while danger circled closer.
A gentle knock interrupts the spiral of self-recrimination. I murmur permission to enter, keeping my voice low enough not to wake the woman beside me.
Draven appears, his second-in-command hovering behind him like a shadow. Both men are still damp from the rain, their armor gleaming with moisture and their faces grim with purpose.
"My lord," Draven begins, his weathered features tight with suppressed urgency. "We found muddy wagon tracks leading toward the forest road outside the estate boundaries."
Kessara stirs against my shoulder, her eyelids fluttering as consciousness creeps back through the haze of grief and exhaustion. She takes in the room, me, the guards.
"What's happened?" Her voice emerges rough and broken, scraped raw by hours of weeping.
"We have a potential lead on where the children went," Draven explains, his tone carefully neutral.
The words strike Kessara like lightning. She flies upright, her hazel eyes wild with desperate hope and fury that burns bright enough to illuminate the dim room.
"Well, let's go then! What are we waiting for?"
My hand catches her wrist before she can swing her legs over the side of the bed, holding her in place with gentle but implacable pressure.
"You're in no condition to be going anywhere. It's late and you need to stay here—my men and I will handle this."
The transformation that crosses her features is nothing short of magnificent.
The broken woman who collapsed in my arms becomes something fierce and untamed, her spine straightening with defiance I haven't seen since that first night in my garden.
Fury blazes across her face, mixed with passion and determination that could move mountains.
"Am I not your equal now?" The words emerge as venom, sharp enough to draw blood. "Do you only favor me when it suits you, Lord Morvath?"
"Now, that's not what—"
"I am going to be there searching for my family, Zerion. This is not a negotiation. Do you understand me?"
The force of her conviction slams into me painfully. Draven and his second exchange glances, clearly uncomfortable witnessing this confrontation between their lord and the human woman who has somehow claimed equal footing in his household.
But she's right. The admission tastes bitter, but I cannot deny the truth of her words. If our positions were reversed, if someone I loved had been taken, nothing in this world could keep me from the search.
"Yes, my sweet."
Draven raises a brow at me, a slight smirk threatening to overtake him. I narrow my eyes at him, and he simply nods, ushering his second through the door and telling us they leave in ten minutes.
Cheeky bastard, looking at me as though I am whipped for this small human woman.
I watch as Kessara gets to her feet, ties her hair back and heads for the door. She looks at me over her shoulder, expression full of expectation and impatience. "Well? Are you coming?"
I chuckle, shaking my head gently. "Yes, my sweet."
Gods, I am entirely whipped for this woman.