Page 40 of His Emotional Support Snack

Driven by the pure, unadulterated instinct to save her son, she throws her weight forward. She grips the jagged shard of mirror glass with both hands, ignoring the sharp edges slicing into her palms. She drives the makeshift blade downward with every ounce of strength remaining in her shattered body.

The glass buries itself deep into the thick, vulnerable seam between the emerald scales of Zatori’s serpentine tail, severing the major nerve cluster.

Zatori shrieks.

The sound is a high, inhuman wail of pure agony. The violent shock paralyzes the upper half of his body. His iron-clad hand spasms, the fingers unclenching involuntarily.

Kalan drops from his grip, tumbling toward the floorboards.

The distraction is absolute. The opening is flawless.

The illusions vanish.

I cross the room in a single, devastating blur of motion.

25

ESME

The sharp, ringing shriek of Zatori’s agony tears through the smoke-filled master suite.

The elder lord’s iron-clad fingers spasm, releasing their vice grip. Kalan plummets.

I do not think. I let go of the jagged mirror shard embedded in the thick emerald scales of Zatori’s tail, ignoring the dark blood spraying across my knuckles. I launch myself forward, throwing my battered body across the debris-strewn rug.

My arms slide under Kalan’s small frame a fraction of a second before he hits the marble.

The momentum carries us across the floorboards. I twist my shoulder, absorbing the brutal impact against the stone to shield the boy. My back screams in protest, the embedded glass shards driving deeper into the flesh. A wet, tearing pain ignites in my side, but I do not stop. I pull Kalan tightly against my chest, curling my body into a tight, protective shell around him.

The room erupts.

A concussive shockwave of pure, untethered magic detonates above us. The force of it rattles the remaining glass in the window frames and sends a shower of plaster raining down on my head.

I crack my eyes open, peering through the settling dust.

The twelve illusions of Zuirvih vanish, dissolving into purple mist. The true master of Vhoig crosses the room in a blinding, terrifying blur of midnight-blue armor and silver hair. He does not use his longsword. He discards the steel, dropping the weapon onto the rug.

Zuirvih slams into Lord Zatori with the force of a collapsing mountain.

The elder dark elf attempts to raise a shield of sickly green magic, a frantic, desperate barrier to block the incoming assault.

Zuirvih does not bypass the shield. He reaches out with both hands, his leather-clad fingers sinking directly into the toxic green light. The purple static of his magic flares, burning with the heat of a dying star. With a guttural, feral roar, Zuirvih rips his hands apart.

The magical ward shatters like brittle ice.

Zatori stumbles backward, his massive serpentine tail thrashing wildly against the ruined furniture, but there is nowhere to run.

Zuirvih descends on him. The civilized, calculating Khuzuth lord is entirely gone. The primal beast takes over. He grabs the front of Zatori’s iron breastplate, lifting the elder lord off the ground. A sickening crunch echoes through the suite as Zuirvih drives his armored fist into Zatori’s face. Once. Twice. The sickening sound of breaking bone and tearing flesh drowns out the storm winds howling outside.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing Kalan’s face into my shoulder. "Don't look, sweet boy. Keep your eyes closed."

"Mama," Kalan whimpers, his small hands clutching the ruined, blood-soaked collar of my leather tunic.

I push my boots into the rug, dragging us backward. Inch by agonizing inch, I crawl toward the corner of the room, putting distance between us and the epicenter of the violence. The adrenaline keeping me upright begins to fray, shredding at the edges. A profound, bone-deep cold creeps up from my toes, freezing the blood in my veins.

The gash on my temple continues to bleed, a warm, steady stream dripping down my jawline. My vision tunnels, the edges bleeding into a fuzzy, gray static. The room spins, a dizzying tilt that makes my stomach heave.

A final, devastating crack rings out.