3. Esme
ESME
Smooth silk glides over blistered, salt-chapped skin.
My eyes snap open. Breath hitches in my throat, catching on a jagged edge of panic. The last memory burning in my mind is the blinding flash of violent purple magic in the alleyway, the Miou commander twisting iridescent silk bindings around my wrists.
I brace for the bite of iron shackles. The damp, moldering rot of a subterranean dungeon. The echoing screams of the Lowtown torture pits.
There are no iron bars.
I push myself upright, my palms sinking into a mattress softer than anything I have ever touched. The silk ropes are gone. A faint, red ring of irritation circles each wrist, but the skin remains unbroken.
Sleek black marble gleams beneath my bare, mud-caked feet.
Vast archways of polished glass replace stone walls, framing a dizzying, glittering expanse of Vhoig’s harbor far below.
The storm has passed, leaving behind a bruised purple twilight.
Tiny ships bob in the black water, so distant they look like carved wooden toys.
We are in the high-tier city. Suspended in the sky. Trapped in a monster’s opulent, gilded cage.
A soft click draws my attention to the grand double doors.
A Zagfer servant, cloaked in shapeless gray robes, glides over the threshold.
The servant’s gaze remains locked on the floorboards, a perfect display of lower-caste submission.
A silver tray rests in their hands. They set it on a low obsidian table near the corner of the chamber and vanish back into the corridor without a sound.
The rich, savory aroma of roasted taura meat and sweet Paquir wine floods the air.
My stomach twists, a sharp, violent cramp of true starvation folding me in half. I slide off the mattress, my boots discarded somewhere in the chaos of the night. Kalan sleeps fitfully near the pillows, his small chest rising and falling in uneven hitches.
I move fast. Survival in the slums operates on a very simple rule: take what is available before it is stolen back.
My roughened fingers tear into the roasted meat, the hot juices scalding my skin.
I rip apart the thickest cuts, wrapping the chunks in a linen napkin from the tray.
I shove the greasy bundle deep beneath the mattress, pushing it toward the center where a casual inspection won't uncover it.
A dense loaf of spiced bread follows, wedged into a dark corner of the ornately carved wooden bedframe.
Tomorrow, the Khuzuth lord might tire of his new game.
The meals could stop. I will not let my boy starve.
"Mama."
Kalan scrambles to the mattress, his small hands bunching the opulent silk sheets. Tears track through the dried grime on his cheeks, his locks tangled and wild. He reaches for me, his eyes wide with lingering terror.
I abandon the tray, wiping the grease from my fingers onto my ruined trousers, and scoop him into my arms. I press his face into my shoulder, rocking him slowly.
"I am here. Mama is here." I murmur the words against his slightly pointed ear, keeping my tone soothing, steady. The lie must be ironclad. The walls in this estate likely harbor spies. The servants might listen. "You are my son. No one will take you from me. I will keep you safe."
He hiccups, burying his face deeper into my tunic.
The grand doors creak open.
There is no knock. No servant’s quiet glide. Just the ominous scrape of claws on stone.
A nightmare stalks into the chamber. It is an immense, four-legged beast of bristling black fur and rippling muscle. A Batlaz. Its vulpine snout wrinkles, exposing a row of jagged, yellowed teeth dripping with saliva. Crimson eyes lock onto me with unblinking, predatory focus.
My lungs freeze. I press Kalan flush against my chest, backing slowly away until my shoulder blades hit the cold glass of the window. There is nowhere to run. The drop behind me is hundreds of feet.
The beast pads forward, its broad chest expanding with a low, rumbling growl that vibrates through the soles of my feet. It bridges the distance in three stalking steps, its head lowering to my waist.
It doesn't lunge.
Instead, the Batlaz pushes its wet, cold nose against my wrist. It takes a deep, snuffling breath.
A strange, vibrating hum fills the air around us.
The faint, pale scars spiderwebbing up my inner forearms begin to warm.
They are a permanent reminder of a desperate, starving winter long ago, when I swallowed a glowing root in the center of a wild, magic-choked forest just to stay alive.
Right now, those iridescent veins catch the dim twilight, pulsing with a faint, silvery sheen.
The Batlaz stops growling. A high, soft whine escapes its throat.
It nudges my forearm again, its tail giving a slow, rhythmic thump against the marble floor.
It licks the glowing skin of my wrist, its rough tongue dragging over the pulse point.
It doesn't want to tear my throat out. It acts like a tamed hound greeting an old friend.
A shadow eclipses the doorway.
The temperature plummets. The air instantly thickens, saturated with the biting, metallic scent of ozone and the crackling static of raw magic. The hairs on my neck stand up.
The dark elf from the alley leans against the threshold.
His frame dominates the space, a silhouette of calculated, predatory grace.
He wears a high-collared tunic of midnight blue, intricate gold embroidery tracing the broad line of his shoulders.
His hair hangs in perfect, obsidian-beaded braids.
Not a single trace of the black, decaying rot I witnessed in the rain mars his skin. He looks flawless.
Lethal.
Violet eyes sweep over the room, tracking the way my arms tighten around Kalan. His gaze drops to the Batlaz whining at my feet, then back to my face. A slow, mocking smirk plays on his lips.
"I observe Vesper has already taken a liking to you." The words glide through the room in a dark, theatrical purr. "Fascinating. He usually prefers to consume human guests."
I say nothing. I keep my chin raised, meeting his terrifying stare with silent, clenched hostility. I will not cower. I will not give him the satisfaction of my fear.
The dark elf pushes off the doorframe, his strides long and unhurried as he crosses the chamber. He stops at the obsidian table. Reaching into the folds of his dark cloak, he produces a coil of metal.
He drops it onto the silver tray.
A thick, solid gold necklace hits the platter with a sharp, resounding clatter. It is a collar in everything but name. A singular, blood-red Zanthenite stone rests on the dense chain, faceted to catch the light like a fresh drop of blood.
"Put it on, little rat." He taps a long, silver-ringed finger against the red stone.
"The court of Vhoig demands a performance tomorrow.
You will wear the silks provided in the armoire, and you will wear this chain.
It proves you belong to the Tagnadaet house.
I am Lord Zuirvih Tagnadaet, and you are my property now. "
My lips work, my teeth grinding together. "I belong to myself. And my name is Esmeralda. Esme. Do not call me a rat."
Zuirvih tilts his head, a dark amusement dancing in his glowing eyes. "As you wish, little rat. But in this city, a human without a master is a human without a head. You are my favored pet now. Wear the collar, or I will let my uncle’s assassins finish what they started in the Lowtown."
He turns his back on me, an infuriating display of supreme arrogance, and walks toward the archway. The shadows stretch and warp around his boots, mirroring the chaotic magic humming beneath his skin.
"The Zagfer will return at dawn to prepare you." He pauses at the threshold, glancing over his shoulder. "Do not disappoint me, little rat. Your survival, and the survival of your... son, depends entirely on how well you play your part."
The door shuts with a quiet, definitive click, leaving me alone with the beast, the boy, and the golden chain waiting on the silver tray.