34. Zerion
ZERION
The warehouse door gives way with barely a whisper, its hinges so corroded they offer no resistance. I step into the musty darkness, the scent of rotting wood and stagnant water filling my nostrils. Dust motes dance in the thin shafts of light filtering through gaps in the weathered walls.
The fabric scrap burns in my palm like a brand. They're here. Every instinct I possess screams confirmation—the same way I can sense a storm approaching or detect movement in the forest. My children are somewhere in this decaying tomb of commerce.
I cannot be too late. Not again.
Behind me, my guards move with practiced silence, their boots finding the solid planks between loose boards that would creak under careless steps.
The warehouse stretches before us like a cavern, filled with the detritus of abandoned trade—crates stacked haphazardly, barrels listing at drunken angles, canvas sacks that have burst and spilled their contents across the floor.
Voices drift from somewhere deeper in the building, too distant to make out words but close enough to confirm we're not alone. I raise my hand, signaling the guards to spread out as we navigate the maze of forgotten cargo.
The wooden crates bear faded markings from shipping companies that probably dissolved years ago.
Water damage has warped most of the containers beyond recognition, their contents long since claimed by rot or vermin.
This place has been abandoned for seasons, maybe longer—which makes it perfect for the kind of business these men conduct.
We weave between towers of moldering grain sacks, following the sound of conversation that grows clearer with each step. The voices lead us toward the back of the warehouse, where a structure that might once have served as an office rises from the maze like a ship's cabin.
Light seeps through cracks in the office walls, and the voices become distinct enough to understand. Two men, discussing their cargo with the casual indifference of merchants haggling over livestock.
"—told us fifty daler each," one says, his accent marking him as someone from the southern ports. "But I'm thinking our employer didn't account for the complications."
"What complications?" The second voice carries a rougher edge, like gravel grinding against stone. "Three brats and a wagon ride. Easiest money I've made all season."
"You see that estate we lifted them from? That wasn't some farmer's cottage. That was noble property, and they're gonna be searching for these little rats."
I press closer to the office wall, my guards flanking me like shadows. Through a gap between warped boards, I can make out two figures—one tall and lean, the other shorter but broader through the shoulders. Neither looks like the type to show mercy if the price is wrong.
"For some human kids?" Gravel-voice asks. "Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm thinking we double the fee. Maybe triple it. Our employer wants these children badly enough to risk stealing from a dark elf lord? Then she can pay what they're actually worth."
My jaw clenches. She. So Selmyra is behind this, just as I suspected.
"And if she refuses?"
The lean one chuckles, a sound that makes my skin crawl with its casual cruelty.
"Then we take our merchandise to the black market. I know dealers there who pay premium prices for young stock, especially if they're already broken in for service. That little human girl alone would fetch enough to keep us comfortable for months."
The rage hits me like a blow, white-hot and consuming. The scrap of fabric crumbles in my clenched fist as every muscle coils for violence. These animals are discussing selling Lysa—sweet, clever Lysa—like she's nothing more than commodity.
They're discussing my family like livestock to be auctioned.
The lean man continues with the detached interest of someone evaluating market prices.
"Course, we'd have to rough them up a bit first. Buyers like them docile, and that oldest boy's got too much fight in him. But a few days in the cells usually sorts that out."
Behind me, I can feel the tension radiating from my guards. They know what those words mean, understand the implications as clearly as I do. The only thing keeping them motionless is discipline and the knowledge that premature action could endanger the children.
But that discipline has limits. And mine are rapidly approaching their breaking point.
I raise my hand, fingers spread in the signal my guards know by heart. The office erupts into controlled chaos as we storm through the door, boots thundering against rotted floorboards.
The lean man spins toward us, hand flying to his belt, but Fendrin's blade finds his throat before he can draw steel.
The broader one lunges for a cudgel leaning against the wall, only to meet Baldraw's fist with his jaw.
The crack of bone breaking echoes through the cramped space like a branch snapping in winter wind.
"Down," I bark, and both men collapse as my guards apply pressure to the precise points that turn defiance into compliance.
Within moments, rope binds their wrists behind their backs, the knots tight enough to cut circulation. They'll live, but comfort isn't among my concerns right now.
The children.
Three small figures sit bound to wooden stools in the corner, burlap sacks pulled over their heads and secured with rough twine around their necks. The sight hits me with such force I'm entirely stilled for a heartbeat, rage and revulsion warring in my chest until I can barely breathe.
Animals. These men are worse than animals.
I cross to them in three swift strides, my hands already working at the twine around the nearest sack. The knots are crude but tight, meant to stay secure while allowing just enough air to keep their cargo alive.
He immediately jerks away from me, his bound hands straining against the rope.
"Get away from me, you dirty elven bastard!"
His voice cracks with exhaustion and fear, but the defiance burns bright in his green eyes. Even beaten and terrified, he's still trying to protect his sisters.
The sack comes free, and recognition floods his features.
The fight drains from his shoulders like water from a broken bucket.
Scrapes cover his left cheek, purple bruises bloom around his right eye, and his lower lip is split and swollen.
His hands, when I see them, bear the marks of someone who fought back—knuckles scraped raw, fingernails torn.
"Lord Zerion?"
I work at the ropes binding his wrists, my fingers steady despite the fury coursing through my veins. The moment his hands come free, he throws his arms around my neck with desperate strength.
"You came."
His voice trembles, and I can feel him fighting tears against my shoulder. Thirteen years old and trying so hard to be the man he thinks his family needs.
"I'd have to be dead otherwise, lad."
My own voice sounds rough, dry, emotion threatening to crack the control I've maintained for decades. I clear my throat and move to free Lysa, whose sack reveals tear-streaked cheeks and wide, frightened eyes. Then Tobin, who immediately reaches for his siblings the moment his hands are unbound.
Each child bears evidence of their captivity—rope burns on their wrists, dirt ground into their clothes, the hollow look that comes from hours of terror. But they're alive. Breathing. Whole.
That will have to be enough for now.
"Can you walk?" I ask, helping Lysa to her feet.
She nods, though her legs shake like a newborn foal's. Bran immediately moves to support her, his protective instincts intact despite everything he's endured.
We move toward the office door, my guards flanking the children while I lead them back through the maze of rotting cargo.
The warehouse feels different now—less threatening, more like the tomb it's always been.
Just a few more steps to reach Kessara, to complete this nightmare and take them all home.
"Not so fast."
The voice pushes through the musty air like a blade, stopping us dead in our tracks. I turn, my hand already moving to my sword hilt, and my blood turns to ice in my veins.
A third man stands twenty paces away, one arm wrapped around Kessara's throat while his other hand presses a knife to the pale skin of her neck. Blood already stains her face, dripping down her lips and chin, and her hazel eyes burn with rage despite the blade at her throat.
I’d forgotten about the last mercenary. Blackwater—Paqui Blackwater.
Fuck.