Page 4 of His Emotional Support Snack

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.