35. Kessara
KESSARA
Iswallow hard, feeling my throat constrict against the jagged edge pressing into my skin. The blade bites just enough to remind me how easily it could slice deeper, how quickly this could all end with one wrong move.
Garrett's blood drips down my chin in warm rivulets, mixing salt and copper on my tongue.
I force myself not to think about how he'd rounded the corner whistling some tavern song, how this monster had appeared like smoke and opened his throat before the melody died on his lips.
Three heartbeats, maybe four, and a good man bled out in the mud while I watched.
"That's right," the man says, his breath hot against my ear. The sound carries that particular arrogance I've learned to recognize in men who mistake cruelty for strength. "You listen to me now, or your precious human will be on the ground faster than she can scream."
His arm tightens around my throat, cutting off just enough air to make each breath a conscious effort. Dark elf, judging by the ash-pale skin I can see from the corner of my eye. Taller than most, with lean muscle that comes from years of violence rather than honest labor.
"Release her."
Zerion's voice cuts through the warehouse like winter wind, low and deadly. His body shields three small figures behind him, and relief floods through me so powerfully my knees nearly buckle. The children. They're alive. Bruised and frightened, but breathing.
A whimper escapes my throat before I can stop it—pure gratitude that we're not too late.
"Stop whining," my captor hisses, jerking me backward until I stumble against his chest. To Zerion, his tone shifts to mock negotiation. "Let go of my associates there, and I'll consider leaving her pretty neck intact."
I can see Zerion's guards flanking the bound men, their hands resting on sword hilts with the casual readiness of professionals. Neither Fendrin nor Baldraw so much as twitch, their discipline absolute despite the threat to my life.
Zerion himself stands motionless, grey eyes fixed on the man holding me with the focused intensity of a predator calculating distance and angles. When he speaks, each word falls like a stone into still water.
"This is your last chance, zagfer. Release her, and I'll consider making your death swift."
The man barks a laugh that vibrates through his chest against my back, the sound sharp and grating in the dusty air.
"Look around you, Lord High and Mighty. I'm the one with the knife at your woman's throat.
I'm the one who decides who lives and dies in the next few minutes.
" His grip shifts, and I feel the blade's edge drag slightly against my skin.
"The tables have turned, and now the spoon-fed noble gets to learn what it means to obey. "
The mockery in his voice carries years of resentment, the kind of bitter hatred that festers in men who blame their failures on others' success. He thinks he's won something here, that holding me hostage gives him power over Zerion.
He doesn't understand what he's actually done.
I've seen Zerion angry before—cold, controlled fury that burns like winter fire. But the expression on his face now transcends anger entirely. This is something primal and absolute, the look of a man who has moved beyond negotiation into pure, calculating violence.
"Wrong choice," Zerion says, his voice carrying the finality of a death sentence. "Which is a pity. For you."
The kidnapper opens his mouth, some cruel retort already forming on his lips, when the world explodes into chaos.
A massive armored force materializes from the shadows behind us—Captain Draven, moving with the lethal grace of a seasoned killer.
His gauntleted fist connects with my captor's skull with a sickening crack that reverberates through the warehouse.
The impact sends us both tumbling. I scream as we hit the ground hard, my captor's grip loosening just enough for the knife to slice across my throat in a burning line of fire.
The blade skitters away into the dust as I roll free, my hand flying to my neck where warm wetness spreads between my fingers.
Blood. Too much blood.
I scramble backward on hands and knees, putting distance between myself and the writhing tangle of violence behind me. Draven has the man pinned beneath his considerable weight, one knee crushing the kidnapper's chest while his sword arm draws back with practiced efficiency.
"Please—" the man gasps, but Draven's blade finds the gap beneath his raised arm with surgical precision.
The long steel slides between ribs like it's cutting through butter, and suddenly the warehouse floor becomes a spreading pool of crimson that reflects the dusty light filtering through broken windows.
The kidnapper's eyes go wide, then empty. The wet sound of his final breath fills the sudden silence.
Before I can process what just happened, strong arms wrap around me from behind. Zerion lifts me to my feet with effortless strength, spinning me to face him so quickly that the warehouse tilts and blurs around the edges.
"Kessa." His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones as those pale eyes search every inch of me for damage. "Where are you hurt? Show me."
The words stick, thick and clumsy. Everything feels distant, like I'm watching this happen to someone else from very far away.
"The blood," I manage to slur out, my tongue feeling too large for my mouth. "It's Garrett's. Not mine."
Relief crashes across his features like a wave breaking against stone. Without warning, his mouth captures mine in a kiss that tastes of desperation and possession, fierce enough to ground me back in my own body. When he pulls away, his forehead rests against mine.
"Come," he says, his hands steady on my shoulders as he guides me toward three small figures huddled near the warehouse wall. "They need you."
The moment Bran, Lysa, and Tobin see me approaching through the dim light of the warehouse, their careful composure—the brave faces they'd been maintaining throughout this nightmare—shatters completely and utterly.
They launch themselves at me with the desperate force of cannonballs, small arms wrapping around my waist and legs and whatever parts of me they can reach first as broken sobs tear from their throats.
"Kessa!" Lysa wails, her voice raw and cracking. Her face presses hard against my ribs, her tears soaking through the fabric of my shirt. "We thought—we thought they were going to—" The rest dissolves into incoherent crying, her small body trembling violently.
"Shh, shh." I sink to my knees on the dirty warehouse floor, pulling them down with me, gathering all three of them against me as tightly as my shaking arms can manage.
My hands move over their heads, their backs, checking for injuries even as I hold them close.
Bran's shoulders shake with silent tears—he's trying so hard to be strong even now, but he can't hold it back anymore.
Tobin clings to my neck like he's drowning and I'm the only piece of driftwood in an endless ocean, his thin arms locked around me with surprising strength.
"I'm here," I whisper fiercely into their hair, my own voice breaking. "You're safe now. I promise you're safe. I'm never letting you go again. Never. Do you hear me?"
When the children's sobs finally quiet to hiccupping breaths and their grip on me loosens just enough that I can breathe properly again, Zerion steps forward. His boots crunch against the debris scattered across the warehouse floor as he gestures to five of his guards.
"Fendrin, Baldraw, Thale, Bandil, Jorik." Each man straightens at the sound of his name. "Escort them home. All of them. Keep them safe."
The words are jarring like ice water, and I spring to my feet so quickly that Lysa stumbles backward with a startled squeak. My hands instinctively reach out to steady her before I whirl to face Zerion, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"What do you mean, escort us home?" The question comes out sharper than I intend, edged with panic I can't quite suppress. "Why aren't you coming with us?"
Zerion's ghostly eyes flick meaningfully toward the two surviving kidnappers, who kneel bound and bloodied near the warehouse's far wall. Draven stands over them like a stone sentinel, his sword still drawn and gleaming with fresh blood.
"These men require questioning." His voice carries that familiar controlled calm, but underneath I hear something harder. Colder. "Thoroughly. The children have endured enough without witnessing what comes next."
Bran shifts closer to me, his young face pale but determined as he follows Zerion's gaze to the prisoners. At thirteen, he's old enough to understand exactly what kind of questioning Zerion means—the sort that doesn't involve polite conversation over tea and biscuits.
"You need to see a healer," Zerion continues, his attention returning to us. "All of you. Rest. Recover from this ordeal." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I need answers about why this happened. Who ordered it. Who else might be involved."
The weight of his words settles over me like a suffocating blanket. Those phrases he'd spoken during our frantic ride through the forest echo in my mind with crystalline clarity: They took what belongs to me because they thought it would give them leverage.
The truth crashes down on me with the force of a collapsing building. This isn't over. It will never be over.
As long as I remain under Zerion's protection—as long as these children live in his house, eat his food, sleep in his beds—we'll always be targets. Someone will always see us as the easiest way to strike at him. A weakness to exploit. A vulnerability to manipulate.