15. Esme
ESME
By the following afternoon, the sun bakes the crushed pearl stones of the courtyard, radiating a stifling heat that sticks the emerald silk to my spine.
I sit cross-legged on the manicured grass, the fabric of the gown pooling around my shins.
Kalan rests between my knees, his small shoulders shifting as I gather the fine, silver strands of his hair.
My fingers work with practiced speed, weaving the bright locks into a tight braid to keep it out of his eyes.
Vesper sprawls beside us. The massive Batlaz takes up most of the shade provided by the obsidian tree, his broad head resting heavily in my lap. He huffs, a warm puff of air stirring the hem of my gown, and closes his crimson eyes in complete contentment.
I drag a thumb over the beast’s bristling snout, the rough fur catching against my skin.
A fragile peace coats the Tagnadaet estate.
For the last eight weeks, the constant threat of Zatori’s assassins has receded behind the impenetrable wall of Zuirvih’s restored magic.
I eat hot meals. I sleep without a knife tucked under my pillow.
Kalan laughs, chasing the carnivorous blossoms and tackling the monstrous guard beast without a trace of fear.
But the peace is a mirage. The ice beneath my boots is cracking.
I tie off Kalan’s braid with a scrap of leather. The boy immediately scrambles to his feet, grabbing a fallen obsidian branch to initiate a mock battle with the drowsing Batlaz.
I rise, dusting the grass from my silk skirt, and walk toward the shaded archway connecting the courtyard to the western corridor. The air cools slightly under the stone eaves.
Voices drift from the slightly ajar iron doors of the master study.
The low, rumbling timbre of Commander Jarek cuts through the quiet afternoon. I press my shoulder against the stone wall, the rough granite biting into my bare skin, and hold my breath.
"The Lowtown overseers are uncooperative, my lord." Jarek’s voice carries a rare note of frustration. "Zatori’s agents are also sniffing around the district archives. We had to extract the information manually."
"I require facts, Jarek, not excuses regarding your methods." Zuirvih’s response is a freezing, lethal purr. The sound makes the hairs on my arms spike up, a conditioned response to the monster playing his political games. "Did you locate the documentation?"
"We secured a ledger from the harbor district." The rustle of stiff parchment echoes through the crack in the doors. "It contains the slave certificates for unregistered laborers. We found the entry for your late brother’s confirmed human companion. Amara."
My pulse flatlines.
The blood drains from my face, rushing straight to my boots. A cold, nauseating dread pools in my stomach, twisting my organs into tight knots.
"Read the entry." Zuirvih commands.
"Amara. Female. Unregistered laborer. Deceased three years prior from unknown toxins." Jarek pauses, the silence stretching into an agonizing eternity. "The certificate lists a dependent born prior to her death. A half-blood male. Kalan."
The ground tilts. I press my palms flat against the stone wall, fighting the sudden urge to vomit.
The slave certificates. The brutal, bureaucratic ledgers the dark elf overseers use to track their livestock.
When Amara died, the overseer demanded a name to transfer the responsibility of the "pest." I gave them mine.
"Does the ledger list a surviving guardian?" The sharp tang of magic bleeds through the crack in the door, a sharp, metallic scent indicating Zuirvih’s rising agitation.
"It does, my lord." Jarek’s voice drops. "A sister. Esmeralda. She is listed as the maternal aunt."
The trap snaps shut.
I push away from the wall, my bare feet silent on the black marble. I do not run. Running draws the predators. I walk back into the blinding sunlight of the courtyard, my chest tight, my lungs refusing to expand.
He knows.
The lie keeping me tethered to the Tagnadaet estate is exposed.
The Khuzuth elite tolerate my presence solely because they believe I am the biological mother of a noble’s bloodline.
It is a twisted, fragile loophole in their caste laws.
An aunt holds no legal claim. An aunt is disposable.
A piece of stolen property harboring an heir.
If Zuirvih presents the truth to the high council, Zatori will demand my immediate execution for deceiving a Khuzuth lord.
If Zuirvih hides the truth, he risks his own standing, protecting a useless human stray.
He needs my blood, yes, but he can drain me in the dungeons just as easily as he feeds from my wrist in the master suite.
I reach Kalan, snatching the obsidian branch from his hands.
"Hey!" He protests, his eyes wide with betrayal.
"We are going inside." My voice is clipped, a harsh rasp I cannot control. I grab his small hand, my grip tighter than necessary, and drag him toward the glass archways of the master suite.
Vesper whines, trotting after us, his massive head bumping against my hip in silent question.
I ignore the beast. We cross the threshold of the bedroom. The air inside is cool and sterile. I drop to my knees near the ornate wooden armoire, dragging the bottom drawer open. My hands shake as I rifle through the folded silks, searching for the small, crude leather pouch I hid weeks ago.
My fingers brush the rough hide. I pull the bag out, the few stolen silver Ipia coins clinking against the dried taura meat wrapped in napkins. It is not enough to bribe a smuggler. It is barely enough to buy passage to the lower harbor. But we have to move. Tonight.
"Mama?" Kalan touches my shoulder, his small voice trembling. He senses the frantic, feral energy radiating from my skin.
"Pack your favorite stones." I shove the pouch into the deep pocket of my gown. "We are playing a game. We have to hide very well tonight."
A shadow eclipses the sunlight streaming through the glass doors.
The temperature drops. The air thickens, saturated with the crackling static of raw magic.
I freeze, my knees still pressed into the woven rug. I slowly turn my head.
Zuirvih leans against the doorframe.
His midnight-blue velvet tunic absorbs the ambient light.
The gold epaulets resting on his broad shoulders gleam with a harsh, unyielding polish.
He looks immaculate. The terrifying, arrogant master of Vhoig.
His eyes scan the room, taking in my position on the floor, the open drawer, the frightened child clutching my skirt.
His face is a mask of perfect, flawless ash-grey. Unreadable. Cold.
"You are agitated, Esmeralda." He steps into the room, his boots soundless.
"I am fine." I rise to my feet, shoving the drawer shut with the heel of my boot. I step in front of Kalan, widening my stance, defaulting to the protective barrier I maintain constantly. "The heat in the courtyard gave me a headache."
"A headache." He repeats the word, a low, mocking hum vibrating in his chest.
He crosses the space between us. I brace for the violence. For the magic to wrap around my throat and choke the life from my lying lungs. For the Miou guards to storm the room and drag me to the torture pits.
He stops inches from my face.
He does not reach for my throat. He does not summon the guards.
Instead, he raises his gloved hand. His long fingers cup the side of my face. The leather is warm, the touch surprisingly gentle, a jarring contrast to the cold fury I expect. His thumb brushes the curve of my lower lip, tracing the shape with slow, agonizing deliberation.
"He is deeply attached to you." Zuirvih’s voice drops, the lethal purr replaced by a quiet, raw sincerity that shatters my defenses. He shifts his gaze to Kalan, peering around my hip. "He looks at you as if you hung the stars in the sky. As if you are the very center of his universe."
My breath hitches. A tear escapes, tracking a hot line down my cheek, catching against his leather glove. "I am the only thing he has."
"A fierce devotion." Zuirvih shifts his attention back to my eyes. The violet irises glow, piercing straight through the fragile armor I wear. "A loyalty that defies biology. Defies logic. It is a rare, beautiful thing to witness in this rotting city."
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. He knows. He holds the slave certificate proving my deception, yet he traces my lip with the obsessive, possessive touch of a lover.
The realization hits me like a painful physical blow, stealing the air from the room.
I am packing a bag to run from the monster holding my leash, but the true terror is not his wrath.
The true terror is the aching, hollow pressure blooming in my own chest at the thought of leaving him.
The late-night feedings, the shared blood, the desperate kisses against the marble mantelpiece—it is no longer a transaction of survival.
The mask has fused to my skin. I care for the dying god of the Khuzuth.
"I belong to him." I whisper, the truth slipping out, a desperate plea for him to understand why I lied.
"Yes." Zuirvih drops his hand, his expression hardening back into the cold, untouchable mask of the Deceiver. "You do. But the question remains, little rat... who do you belong to?"
He turns and walks out of the bedroom, leaving the question hanging in the sterile air, and the leather pouch of stolen coins burning a hole in my pocket.