Page 6 of His Emotional Support Snack

Purple sparks jump across my knuckles, a chaotic manifestation of my fraying control. The God of Illusions demands a perfect mask.

I pull my magic inward, forcing it up through my throat and into the skin of my face. The chaotic energy weaves a seamless, localized glamour over my flesh, painting a flawless, healthy ash-grey hue over the sickly pallor draining my features. It costs precious energy, hastening the rot by a fraction of a degree, but the alternative is exposure. To show weakness in Vhoig is to invite the executioner's blade.

"You misunderstand your position, little rat." I lower the empty goblet, turning back to face her. The pain is locked away behind a wall of cold, aristocratic indifference. "This is not a game. It is a matter of absolute survival."

She watches me carefully, her eyes narrowing. She does not miss the slight shift in my breathing, the sudden rigidity in my spine. She is hyper-vigilant, analyzing every twitch of my jaw for a hidden trap.

"My uncle, Lord Zatori, worships The Serpent." I step closer, dropping my voice into a low, lethal hum. The air pressure drops, the ozone scent of my magic sharpening. "His devotion is measured in the suffering he inflicts. He orchestrated the hunt in the Lowtown to claim the boy’s blood. If he discovers a crack in this charade—if he suspects for a singular moment that you are not my cherished possession—he will bypass my authority entirely. He will drag you down to the torture pits, flay the skin from your arms, and drain the child’s veins into a chalice."

She swallows hard. The color drains from her face, leaving her pale and drawn beneath the dirt smudging her cheeks.

"He will look for weakness." I reach out, my gloved fingers brushing the rough, frayed collar of her linen tunic. She goes instantly rigid, her breath catching in her throat, but she does not pull away. "He will invite you to speak, waiting for your Lowtown ignorance to betray you. He will watch how I look at you, how I touch you. The nobility expects a Khuzuth lord to be deeply, obsessively possessive of his human pets."

My thumb grazes the line of her jaw. Her skin is cold, trembling slightly under my touch. The scent of rain, salt, and a strange, ancient sweetness drifts from her hair, a sharp contrast to the suffocating perfumes of the high-tier courts.

"Tomorrow, the Tagnadaet estate hosts a gathering in the gardens." I drop my hand, stepping back to reestablish the vast chasm of our castes. "You will be bathed. You will be dressed in the green silks waiting in the armoire. And you will wear the Zanthenite."

I motion to the immense Batlaz resting at her feet. Vesper’s tail thumps once against the marble.

"Vesper will remain here." I adjust the heavy gold cuffs at my wrists, restoring the flawless, intimidating picture of a dark elf lord in his prime. "He is trained to rip the throat out of anyone attempting to breach these doors. He will also perform the same service if you attempt to climb out the window with the boy strapped to your back."

Her eyes flash with renewed anger, confirming she had already mapped out the treacherous drop to the harbor below.

"Rest while you can, human." I turn toward the archway, my shadows trailing after me like obedient hounds. "Tomorrow, you belong to me in front of the entire city. Make sure your performance is convincing. I do not tolerate poor acting."

I cross the threshold, pulling the grand double doors shut behind me. The locks click into place with a definitive, ringing finality.

In the quiet of the corridor, out of her sight, the illusion drops. I lean heavily against the stone wall, pressing a hand to my chest as a fresh wave of black, burning agony brings me to my knees. The toxin claims another inch of my life, a silent, ticking countdown to the grave.

I have less than five years to secure my brother's legacy. Less than five years to ensure my own soul bypasses the frozen torments of Glacies.

And my salvation rests on the shoulders of a feral human who would gladly slide a knife between my ribs.

5

ESME

The fabric clings like a treacherous second skin, thinner than a breath and infinitely more degrading than the salt-stained rags of the slums. The emerald green silk drapes across my collarbones, plunging low enough to bare the jagged, pale scar bisecting my ribs. The sheer sleeves offer zero concealment. Under the harsh, unyielding light of the high-tier sun, the faint iridescent veins spiderwebbing up my inner forearms pulse, catching the glare with a pearlescent shimmer.

Around my throat, the gold Zanthenite collar rests against my pulse. The blood-red gemstone sits in the hollow of my collarbone, a glaring, permanent brand. Pet. Property.

I grip Kalan’s small hand, anchoring myself to his fragile warmth, and step out of the shadowed archway into the Tagnadaet estate gardens.

The courtyard is a vibrant, terrifying display of Khuzuth extravagance. Carnivorous blossoms snap at the air, their petals resembling spun glass and dripping with sweet, intoxicating nectar. Trees with bark of polished obsidian stretch jagged branches toward the bruised purple sky of Vhoig. A winding path of crushed white pearl crunches beneath my thin leather sandals, the sound excessively loud in my own ears.

Miou guards line the perimeter, statues in dark armor. Their eyes track our every step. They do not blink. They calculate the exact angle required to sever my head should I make a sudden, unapproved movement.

Kalan presses his side flush against my thigh, his tiny fingers digging into the delicate green silk. He whimpers, overwhelmed by the vivid colors and the suffocating presence of so many predators in one space.

"Keep your eyes on the ground, sweet boy," I murmur, my lips barely moving. I squeeze his hand, projecting a calm I do not possess. "We walk. We stand quietly. Nothing will touch you."

Ahead, the court of Vhoig gathers around crystal fountains and statues carved from shifting, unnatural shadows. Jewels flash in the sunlight. Laughter tinkles over the bubbling water, sharp and cruel as broken glass.

At the middle of the glittering assembly stands the master of the house.

Zuirvih commands the space without moving a muscle. He wears midnight blue velvet tailored flawlessly to his frame, gold embroidery tracing the broad, sweeping line of his shoulders. Silver braids cascade over his chest, catching the light with metallic precision. He speaks to a cluster of sycophantic nobles, his voice a low, mocking purr carrying effortlessly over the ambient noise.

The sound vibrates through the soles of my sandals. It prickles along the nape of my neck, sending a flush of unwanted, terrifying heat rushing beneath the cold emerald silk.