Page 8 of His Emotional Support Snack

Vane chokes, his eyes rolling back as the chaotic illusion cuts off his oxygen. He drops to his knees on the pearl walkway, his armor clattering loudly in the sudden, dead silence of the gardens.

With a dismissive, bored flick of Zuirvih’s fingers, the shadows vanish.

The Serpent lord collapses forward, coughing violently, clutching his unbruised throat while scrambling backward like a beaten dog.

The surrounding court turns into a collection of statues. Nobles snap their heads away, suddenly fascinated by their wine goblets and the blooming death-bell vines. The message is delivered, etched into the minds of every predator present.

Zuirvih’s hand remains clamped securely around my waist. His thumb strokes the pale, jagged scar over my ribs, a slow, warning caress broadcast to the entire gathering.

A tremor rocks my shoulders. I stand frozen against his side, trapped in the eye of a lethal storm, his chaotic magic buzzing through my blood. He saved my life, but the unyielding grip on my waist is a terrifying reminder. I am not safe. I have merely traded the alleys of the Lowtown for the lap of Vhoig's most dangerous monster.

6

ZUIRVIH

The heat of her body radiates through the sheer emerald silk, pressing a jarring, fragile warmth against my side.

I steer her away from the garden’s sneering elite, my arm clamped securely around her waist. My fingers splay over her ribs, the thin fabric offering zero insulation between my leather gloves and her skin. A fine, ceaseless tremor wracks her frame. She vibrates like a plucked string, running on the fading adrenaline of a prey animal surviving the jaws of a predator.

Yet, she refuses to bow.

Her chin remains locked at a sharp, defiant angle. She walks through the winding, open-air corridors of the Tagnadaet estate with a rigid, unbroken stride. The Khuzuth nobility watch our retreat. They whisper behind their jeweled goblets, mapping this display of blatant possessiveness. A Khuzuth lord dragging his new human mistress away, her throat marked by his gold, her defiance shielded by his shadow.

My uncle’s spies will carry this exact image back to Zatori before the sun sets. The political chessboard of Vhoig demands this spectacle.

We enter the western wing. The polished black marble reflects our mismatched rhythm. Her thin leather sandals slap the stone; my boots eat up the distance with long, unyielding strides. Kalan scrambles to keep pace, his tiny fists gripping the trailing green fabric of her gown. The boy's silver hair catches the ambient light, a glaring beacon of my late brother's bloodline.

The towering iron doors of my private study wait at one end of the hall. I lift two fingers from her waist, a slight, silent decree.

Commander Jarek and the Miou perimeter guards halt as one. They melt back into the darkness of the antechamber, their eyes averting from the coming discipline. The strict hierarchy of Vhoig demands nothing less. A lord’s wrath is an intimate, brutal affair, not meant for the warrior caste.

I shove the doors inward and propel her over the threshold.

Releasing her waist leaves a biting chill against my ribs. I turn my wrist, drawing a thread of raw magic from my core. Purple static snaps across my knuckles, stinging my own skin. The energy arcs through the air, striking the iron deadbolts. The mechanisms shriek, sliding home with a violent, resounding clang that seals us inside the windowless, shadow-draped room.

Esme immediately steps backward. She snatches Kalan by the shoulders, shoving the boy behind her thighs. Her gaze sweeps the study, mapping the obsidian desk, the velvet chairs, the locked exits. Calculating. Always calculating.

"Do you court the executioner's blade, Esmeralda?" The words leave my mouth in a quiet, mocking drawl.

I cross the room, my boots soundless on the woven rugs. The air pressure drops, the metallic scent of ozone sharpening as my irritation bleeds into the atmosphere. My shadows detach from the floor, creeping up the stone walls to form elongated, menacing shapes.

She does not retreat further. Her stance widens. She raises her hands, fingers curling into a fighter's guard, ready to strike a lord of Vhoig. The gold collar flashes in the dim light, a stark reminder of her place.

"I will not let them touch him." Her voice rings out, remarkably steady, though a fine sheen of sweat coats her brow.

"Lord Vane serves The Serpent." I pause just out of her striking range, letting the oppressive weight of my presence bear down on her. "He strips the flesh from insubordinate servants for mere sport. A human standing up to a noble, issuing commands in a public forum, is usually slaughtered on the spot. You insulted him in front of the entire court."

"Then let him send his executioners." Her chest heaves, the pale, jagged scar over her ribs stretching beneath the silk. "I will take their eyes before they take my son."

I tilt my head. "Your son." I repeat the word, letting the syllables roll over my tongue. "My brother’s blood runs through his veins. That alone makes him a target. Your defiance makes you a liability. I cannot stop Zatori's allies from tearing you apart if you openly provoke them."

"You stopped him today."

"I humiliated him." The correction leaves my lips as a freezing whisper. "I warped his reality and choked him with his own fear to establish a boundary. Vhoig respects violence and possession. You belong to the Tagnadaet house. Therefore, Vane cannot touch you without declaring open war on my estate. But if you provoke them, if you give them a legal reason to strike down a feral human, I will not be able to interfere."

"I am a prop in your political war." She glares up at me, the hostility in her eyes burning bright.

"You are breathing."