39. Kessara
KESSARA
Ipush through the cabin door, wiping dirt and sweat from my palms on the rough fabric of my apron.
The soil outside clings stubbornly under my fingernails—a reminder of the three hours I spent breaking ground with nothing but a rusty hoe and sheer determination.
My back aches from the unfamiliar angle of the work, muscles protesting after months of softer duties within the estate walls.
The somana seeds rest in neat rows now, along with the frisse and burgona I managed to purchase with the last of our coin. If the weather holds, we'll have fresh vegetables in a fortnight. Enough to fill our bellies and preserve for the lean months ahead.
I can do this. I read enough books on canning and preservation during those quiet afternoons in the estate library. The knowledge sits fresh in my memory, detailed instructions on salt ratios and proper storage that will serve us well through winter.
The cabin feels smaller than I remember, cramped and dim after the spacious rooms we left behind. My three siblings huddle around the rickety wooden table, their faces drawn with the particular sullenness that children master when the world disappoints them.
"The garden's planted," I announce, forcing brightness into my voice that I don't entirely feel. "We'll have proper vegetables soon enough."
Bran doesn't look up from where he's carving meaningless patterns into the table surface with his knife. The blade scrapes against the wood with sharp, irritating sounds that set my teeth on edge.
"Wonderful," he mutters. "Fresh vegetables to go with our stale bread and empty pantry."
"Don't be dramatic." I untie my apron and hang it on the wooden peg by the door. "We have enough supplies to last until the harvest comes in."
Lysa finally lifts her head, and the accusation in her hazel eyes hits me painfully. "We had warm beds at the estate. And Master Ramin was teaching me to read properly."
"You can still read." The words come out sharper than I intend. "I'll continue your lessons."
"It's not the same." Her voice rises with the particular pitch that signals an impending tantrum. "You don't know all the stories he knew. You can't teach us about history and mathematics and—"
"I know enough."
The words are biting. I force myself to take a breath.
"This is for the best." I cross my arms and plant my feet, adopting the stance that has ended a thousand arguments over the years. "We're safer here. We're free here."
"Free to starve," Bran says without looking up from his carving.
"Free to be targets," Lysa adds, her voice cracking with tears she refuses to shed.
The two of them lock eyes across the table, and I recognize the dangerous spark that flares between them. They're looking for someone to blame, and in the absence of our real enemies, they'll settle for each other.
"That's enough." I step between them before the argument can escalate. "We're family. We stick together, no matter—"
The cabin door explodes inward, tearing it from its hinges.
"Zerion!"
The chorus of voices hits me. All three children abandon their sullen poses and rush toward the towering figure filling our doorframe. Their faces transform from misery to pure joy in the span of a heartbeat.
Lysa reaches him first, her small arms wrapping around his waist as she buries her face against the dark fabric of his coat. Tobin crashes into his legs, knocking over a smaller man, while Bran—my serious, cautious Bran—actually grins as he approaches more slowly.
Zerion's arms come around them with surprising gentleness, his large hands smoothing over Lysa's tangled curls and squeezing Tobin's shoulder. The controlled mask he usually wears has cracked completely, revealing something raw and vulnerable beneath.
"Calm down, all of you." His voice holds the familiar note of authority, but warmth underlies each word. He squeezes Bran's shoulder again. "Well done, lad."
Bran beams up at him, practically vibrating with pride. "You got my message?"
"Indeed." Zerion's grey eyes find mine over the children's heads, and something dangerous flickers in their depths. "The Thornefields are exceptionally good at leaving a trail of clues."
He winks at Lysa, who dissolves into giggles that echo through our cramped cabin like silver bells. The sound cuts through my chest with surgical precision.
"Come back here." I snap my fingers and point toward the table. "All of you, right now."
None of them move. They remain clustered around Zerion like moths drawn to flame, their faces turned up toward him with the kind of adoration that used to be reserved for me alone.
The betrayal tastes bitter on my tongue.
Zerion's gaze meets mine across the small space, and the tension that had momentarily dissolved snaps back into place with vicious intensity. His expression shifts, becoming something softer and infinitely more dangerous.
"Come home, Kessara."
The words hit me like a slap. "I am home."
"This isn't our home anymore." Bran's voice wavers with guilt, his freckled face scrunching as he looks between Zerion and me. "I'm sorry, Kessa, but I had to tell him where we went. We don't belong here."
The admission should anger me. I should rage at him for the betrayal, for undermining everything I've sacrificed to keep them safe. Instead, I feel nothing but hollow resignation.
Of course he left clues. Of course he wanted to be found.
"The estate is dangerous." I force steel into my voice, crossing my arms to hide the tremor in my hands. "Being with Zerion will only bring you more harm. You saw what happened—"
"What happened," Zerion interrupts, stepping deeper into the cabin, "was my failure to anticipate Selmyra's desperation. It won't happen again."
He moves with that predatory grace I remember, each step deliberate and measured. The children part before him like water, still clinging to his coat but allowing him passage.
"I'll build taller walls. Triple the guard rotations. Commission protective wards from the capital if necessary." His voice becomes something approaching a plea. "Whatever it takes to keep all of you safe."
"You can't protect us from everything." But even as I say the words, I'm backing toward the far wall. "There will always be another kidnapper, another threat—"
"Then I'll face them all."
He's close enough now that I can see the silver threads woven through his dark coat, can smell the familiar scent of winter air and expensive soap that clings to his skin. Close enough that the heat radiating from his body cuts through the cabin's chill.
His hand rises to cup my cheek, thumb tracing the line of my jaw with devastating gentleness.
"I need you, Kessara." The words emerge as a whisper. "I love you."
His mouth finds mine before I can protest, before I can remind him of all the reasons this is impossible. The kiss tastes of desperation and promises, of all the words we've never spoken aloud.
When he pulls back, I realize he's trembling.
"All of you," he whispers against my lips.
The tears come without permission, hot and silent as they spill down my cheeks. I stare up at him through the blur, my vision fracturing his face into fragments of silver hair and pale grey eyes.
"But... we're nothing." The words scrape my throat raw. "I'm a thief who got caught stealing fruit. They're children with no name, no bloodline, no—"
"No." The word explodes from him with such fierce passion that Lysa jumps in his arms. His free hand cups my other cheek, thumbs brushing away the tears that won't stop falling. "You're everything."
His voice breaks on that last word, and I've never heard anything so raw from him before. The controlled, distant lord has vanished entirely, leaving only a man whose composure has shattered completely.
"I can’t live another day without your laughter in my house." His forehead presses against mine, breath warm against my lips. "Without their chaos. Without Tobin leaving muddy footprints through my halls, or Lysa asking me seventeen questions about every book in the library."
Tobin giggles at that, his small hand fisting in Zerion's coat. "I only asked sixteen questions yesterday."
"Without Tobin challenging every decision I make because he thinks I'm not good enough for his sister." Zerion's eyes never leave mine, even as his mouth quirks at the corner. "Which he's absolutely right about, by the way."
Bran shifts uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing red. "I never said—"
"You didn't have to." Zerion's smile turns rueful. "Your disapproval could freeze wine in summer."
More tears spill over, and I hate how they make me feel—weak, exposed, desperate. But I can't seem to stop them.
"You've shown me a kind of life I can't come back from.
" His voice drops to little more than a whisper, meant only for me despite our audience.
"Ever. Before you, my halls were silent tombs filled with expensive furniture and bitter memories.
Now they echo with arguments and laughter and the sound of children's feet running where no child has ever been welcome. "
His thumb traces the scar across my knuckle, the one I earned trying to pick the wrong pocket when I was barely sixteen.
"You taught me what it means to have a family worth protecting. A home worth defending." He lifts my scarred hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the faded mark. "I was existing before you. Now I'm living."
Lysa sniffles against his coat, her voice muffled. "Are we really your family?"
"You are." He doesn't hesitate, doesn't qualify the statement with conditions or explanations. "All of you. If you'll have me."
The simple certainty in his voice undoes me completely. The last of my resistance crumbles like a wall built on sand, leaving nothing but the truth I've been fighting for weeks.
I love him. I love this impossible, arrogant, protective man who broke into our cabin like he owned it—which, knowing him, he probably does by now.
"Kessa?" Bran's voice wavers with uncertainty. "What do we do?"
I look at my siblings—my children, really, since I raised them—and see the hope blazing in their eyes. They want this. They want him, want the life he's offering.
And for once in my stubborn, prideful life, I want it too.
"We go home."