23. Esme
ESME
The explosion in the courtyard is a distant, muffled tremor, but the alchemical green smoke from the battle quickly begins back-drafting into the subterranean levels.
With the air in the cellar turning thick and toxic, I am forced to run down, retrieve Kalan and Vesper, and drag them up to the master suite—the only clean-air refuge remaining under Zuirvih's personal wards.
I barely lock the doors behind us when a deafening blast tears the master suite doors from their iron hinges.
The concussive wave strikes me in the chest.
I fly backward, the impact stealing the breath from my body before my shoulder blades slam into the black marble wall.
A sickening crack echoes in my ears, accompanied by a sharp, blinding flash of pain in the back of my skull.
I crumple to the woven rug, gasping for air, my vision swimming with dark, static spots.
Dust and splintered oak shower the bedroom.
The acrid, cloying stench of crushed lilies and dried blood floods the chamber, suffocating the lingering scent of ozone.
I drag my chin up, fighting the dizzying nausea. Through the settling debris, a grotesque, towering silhouette breaches the threshold.
Lord Zatori does not walk into the suite. He slithers.
The elder dark elf discards the illusion of two ash-grey legs. From the waist down, his body merges into a massive, emerald-scaled serpentine tail. I gasp.
How is he like a naga? The only explanation I conjure is forbidden magic used to seek ultimate power.
He locks his now transformed slit pupils onto me first, a grotesque, hungry sneer twisting his features.
"The Star-Root cure,” Zatori purrs, the sibilant hiss cutting through the ringing in my ears. “With you in my possession, Zuirvih's core will rot by morning. You are coming with me, human.”
His gaze then flickers to the massive bed where Kalan sits shivering among the pillows, his eyes wide with paralyzing terror. “And the half-blood abomination will be a fitting sacrifice to ensure the Tagnadaet line ends into nothingness.”
The Batlaz moves before I can force my limbs to obey.
Vesper lunges from the shadows near the vanity, a massive blur of black fur and snapping, saliva-slicked jaws. The beast aims directly for Zatori’s throat, a feral roar vibrating through the room.
Zatori does not flinch.
He raises a clawed hand. A blinding pulse of toxic green magic erupts from his palm, striking the Batlaz mid-air. The force of the blast throws Vesper across the room. The beast crashes into the stone wall with a sickening thud, sliding to the floor in a limp, unmoving heap.
"No!" The scream tears from my throat, raw and desperate.
I scramble to my feet, the pain in my skull momentarily buried beneath a surge of pure, primal adrenaline. The small hunting knife Zuirvih left on the nightstand rests in my grip, the hilt slick with the sweat of my palm.
Zatori slithers closer to the bed, reaching for the child.
I do not hesitate. I launch myself across the rug, covering the distance in three frantic strides. I grip the hilt of the knife with both hands, driving the steel blade directly into the gap between Zatori’s iron pauldron and his neck.
The blade sinks deep.
Dark, hot blood spurts from the wound, coating my knuckles.
Zatori snarls, a violent, hissing sound of pain and outrage. He twists his massive torso, the momentum of his serpentine lower half whipping around. The back of his iron-clad gauntlet strikes the side of my face.
The blow is devastating.
My feet leave the floor. I crash sideways into the towering, silver-framed mirror resting against the wall.
The glass shatters upon impact. A deafening, cascading roar of breaking mirrors fills the room. Jagged shards rain down, slicing through my leather tunic, biting deep into the flesh of my arms and back. I hit the marble floor hard, the broken glass grinding into my skin.
A warm, wet heat spreads rapidly across my cheek, dripping down my jaw to stain the collar at my throat. Blood. Too much blood. The room tilts on a violent axis. I try to push myself up, my palms slipping in the crimson pooling on the white marble.
Zatori rips the hunting knife from his shoulder, tossing the bloody blade onto the rug. He ignores the wound, his green eyes burning with a cruel, triumphant light.
He reaches into the bed, his clawed fingers wrapping roughly around Kalan’s small arm.
The boy screams, a high, terrified shriek that pierces straight through the haze in my brain.
"Quiet, abomination." Zatori yanks the child from the pillows, lifting him into the air by one arm. Kalan thrashes, his tiny boots kicking uselessly against the elder lord’s iron breastplate. "Your blood will serve The Serpent well. A minor offering, but enough to solidify my claim."
"Put him down."
The words scrape from my throat, a ragged, wet gasp.
I drag myself up onto my knees. The movement pulls the glass shards deeper into my back, a blinding, tearing agony that forces a whimper through my clenched teeth.
The silver magic in my veins flickers, attempting to seal the dozens of lacerations, but the trauma is too extensive.
My blood continues to pour, soaking into the knees of my linen trousers.
My right hand gropes blindly over the shattered mirror fragments littering the floor. My fingers close around a long, jagged shard of silver-backed glass.
I squeeze the makeshift blade. The sharp edges slice into my palm, adding to the crimson smear, but the pain anchors me. It clears the dizzying fog.
Zatori turns his head, his slit pupils narrowing as he looks down at me.
"Stubborn livestock," he sneers, his tail shifting restlessly over the rug. "Zuirvih always possessed a tragic weakness for strays. He believes your blood is a permanent shield. He forgets that humans break so easily."
He tightens his grip on Kalan. The boy’s crying hitches, his face turning pale as the claws dig into his delicate skin.
I do not look at the blood pooling around my knees. I do not acknowledge the cold, numbing sensation creeping up my legs. I focus entirely on the pulse beating rapidly at the base of Zatori’s ash-grey throat. The vulnerability exposed just above the rim of his breastplate.
I stagger to my feet. The room spins, a dark vignette creeping into my field of vision.
I raise the shard of glass, squaring my shoulders, locking my stance. I will not cower. I will not beg. I am the matriarch of a shattered bloodline, and I will force this monster to choke on his own arrogance before he takes my son.
"Take one more step toward the door," I whisper, the promise thick with my own blood. "And I will cut your throat."