Page 49 of His Emotional Support Snack

The rapid slap of bare feet follows immediately.

Kalan bursts through the archway, his hair a wild, tangled mess. He holds a carved wooden training sword—a gift from Commander Jarek—gripped tightly in both hands.

"Yield, beast!" The boy shouts, launching himself at the Batlaz.

Vesper lets out a dramatic, rumbling groan. The massive predator flops onto his back, exposing his belly, his four paws kicking lazily in the air. Kalan drops the wooden sword and tackles the beast, burying his face in the thick black fur, tickling the Batlaz until the monster whines in playful defeat.

I watch the heir of the Tagnadaet house wrestle a nightmare on the balcony, a genuine, startling laugh vibrating in my chest.

"He is going to grow up believing he can conquer the world with a wooden stick," a quiet voice murmurs.

I turn.

Esme leans against the stone doorframe. She wears one of my discarded linen tunics, the hem falling to her mid-thigh, the collar slipping off one shoulder to expose the delicate curve of her collarbone. The morning light catches the dark, messy tangle of her hair. She looks impossibly small, fragile, and more terrifyingly beautiful than any Khuzuth queen.

I hold out my hand.

She crosses the balcony, the stone cold beneath her bare feet. She steps into my space, wrapping her arms around my waist. She turns, resting her back flush against my chest, leaning her head onto my shoulder.

My arms lock around her, pulling her tight against me.

She lifts her right hand, placing it flat against the center of my chest. Directly over the spot where the white-hot agony of poison once burned. There is no putrid web of black veins. No misfiring magic. Only the strong, even thud of a restored heart, beating in perfect synchronization with her own.

I drop my chin to the top of her head, my fingers sliding down her arm to catch her left hand.

I trace the dark, solid band resting on her ring finger.

It is pure, unadulterated Zanthenite. Black as the void, unpolished, unbreakable. It is not the degrading, blood-red collar of a pet. It is the irrefutable marker of a Khuzuth warlord’s equal.

"The high council will undoubtedly draft a dozen new decrees by midday to challenge the validity of our union," I say, the rumble of my voice vibrating against her spine.

"Let them." She traces the back of my hand with her thumb. "Commander Jarek said the Miou warriors are currently building a pyre for Lord Zatori in the central square. I imagine the sight of your uncle burning to ash will discourage any immediate political maneuvers."

"Jarek is efficient." I press a kiss to the crown of her head. "But the political maneuvers are irrelevant. Vhoig belongs to us now, Esmeralda. The trade routes, the harbor, the high-tier courts. The Tagnadaet house is the undisputed apex."

I turn her in my arms, forcing her to look up at me.

The dark, hyper-vigilant shadows that haunted her eyes for the past two months are gone. The defensive, coiled tension of a prey animal waiting for the jaws to snap shut has melted away. She looks at me with a steady, unbreakable trust that humbles the ancient, arrogant blood running in my veins.

"No one will ever dare threaten this estate again," I vow, the words carrying the weight of a blood oath. "No slave catcher will ever look twice at you. No Serpent assassin will ever cast a shadow near the boy. I will drown the continent in magic before I let a single drop of rain fall on you without my permission."

She smiles. It is a slow, radiant curve of her lips that rivals the sunrise breaking over the harbor.

"I know," she whispers.

She rises onto her toes, her hands cupping my jaw. She pulls my head down, pressing a lingering, devastatingly soft kiss to my lips. It is not a desperate transaction of survival. It is not a frantic feeding. It is the simple, profound confirmation of a shared soul.

I deepen the kiss, drinking in the taste of her, the scent of the coming rain mingling with the lingering ozone of my magic.

The feral survivor from the Lowtown and the dying monster of the high courts. We shattered the rules of Vhoig. We burned the ancient prejudices to ash. And from the ruins, we forged a legacy that will stand for five hundred years.

I pull back, resting my forehead against hers, watching the bright, untamed future reflecting in her gaze.

The game of masks is over. The true reign begins.

ESME

The vaulted stone ceiling of the grand cathedral of Vhoig stretches into a cavernous, shadow-draped abyss.