Chapter 1

Keira

I've been in Daryn Vaelor's household for two weeks now, and I still can't decide if I'm lucky or doomed.

Lucky, because Amisra is everything bright and good in this world—a little half-elven ray of starlight who asks questions like breathing and hasn't yet learned that humans are supposed to be invisible. Lucky, because her father pays well and doesn't beat his servants, which makes him practically saintly by dark elf standards. Lucky, because the work is manageable: caring for one precocious four-year-old, keeping her fed and educated and entertained, making sure she doesn't accidentally set the garden on fire with unauthorized magic experiments.

Doomed, because I'm human in an elven household, and that's always a precarious position no matter how kind the master pretends to be.

The other servants make that abundantly clear.

They're all dark elves, naturally—kitchen staff and groundskeepers and the austere woman who manages the household accounts. They move through the estate like silk on water, speaking in that liquid language I'll never fully understand, their violet and indigo eyes sliding past me as if I'm furniture. Breath and background. A necessary inconvenience.

I've grown used to it. Had to, really, or I'd have gone mad years ago when I was still in the textile mills, surrounded by overseers who thought humans were best seen with fists and worse. At least here, the disdain is polite. Distant. They don't acknowledge me, but they don't hurt me either.

It's a strange kind of freedom.

"Keira, look!" Amisra's voice pulls me from my thoughts. She's crouched in the grass near the fountain, her silver-white hair falling forward in a curtain as she examines something on the ground. "The thalivern landed right on my hand!"

I cross the garden to where she's practically vibrating with excitement, and sure enough—perched delicately on her small palm is one of those iridescent thalivern, its four wings catching the afternoon sun and throwing rainbows across her skin.

"Beautiful," I murmur, kneeling beside her. "But you have to stay very still, or it'll fly away."

"I am still." She's not, but I don't have the heart to correct her when she's this delighted. "Do you think it knows I'm only half elf? Papa says some creatures can tell."

My chest tightens. She asks questions like this sometimes—innocent, probing, trying to understand why she's different from her father, why some of the servants look at her with something closer to pity than reverence. I've learned to tread carefully.

"I think it knows you're gentle and kind," I say instead. "That's what matters to most."

She considers this with the gravity of a scholar contemplating ancient texts. Then the thalivern takes flight, and she watches it go with a wistful sigh before bouncing to her feet, crisis apparently forgotten.

"Can we practice letters now? I want to write a story about a thalivern who grants wishes."

"After your mathematics lesson," I counter, already herding her toward the stone bench where I've set up her slate and chalk. "We had a bargain, remember?"

She groans, dramatic as a stage actor. "Mathematics is boring."

"Mathematics keeps merchants from cheating you when you're buying honey cakes."

"...Fine." She flops onto the bench with maximum theatricality. "But only because I love honey cakes more than I hate numbers."

I hide my smile as I settle beside her, pulling out the simple problems I prepared this morning. She's bright—dangerously so for someone so young—and she picks up concepts faster than most children twice her age. Within minutes, she's working through addition and subtraction with the same intense focus she brings to everything.

I watch her bent head, the way she sticks her tongue out slightly when she's concentrating, and something warm and terrifying blooms in my chest.

Don't get attached, I remind myself. Don't let yourself love her.

But it's far too late for that.

"Keira?" Her voice is small suddenly. Uncertain. "Do you think Papa is sad?"

I pause, choosing my words with care. "Why do you ask?"

"He's tired a lot. And yesterday I heard him talking to Uncle Val about... about sleeping for a long time." She looks up at me, those lavender eyes too old for her face. "Is he going away?"

My heart cracks. She doesn't understand—not fully—but she senses something wrong. Children always do. They're attuned to undercurrents adults think they're hiding.

"Your papa loves you very much," I say gently, which isn't an answer but it's all I can offer. "And he's making sure you'll always be taken care of, no matter what happens."

"By Uncle Val?"

"Maybe. Would you like that?"

She nods immediately. "Uncle Val is nice. He's serious sometimes, but he always listens when I talk. Not like some grown-ups who just pretend." She returns to her slate, apparently satisfied. "I hope Papa doesn't go away, though. I'd miss him."

"I know, sweetheart. I know."

We work in silence for a while, the afternoon sun warm on my shoulders, the fountain singing its eternal song. This is the part of the job I treasure—these quiet moments where it's just us, no performance required, no masks to maintain. Just a little girl and the woman who's somehow become her whole world.

Don't get attached.

Too late. Far, far too late.

He comes again that evening like does most. 

Valas Morthen, with his storm-light skin and moon-violet eyes, moving through the estate like he owns it even though I know he doesn't live here. He's been visiting every other day since I started, always bringing some small gift for Amisra—enchanted toys that sing or dance, rare sweets from the market, once a book of fairy tales with illustrations that actually moved on the page.

She adores him. Lights up like a candle whenever he walks through the door, chattering about her day and showing off her newest accomplishments with the absolute confidence that he'll care about every word.

And he does. That's what unsettles me most. He listens to her with the same grave attention he'd give a fellow scholar, asking thoughtful questions, praising her progress, gently correcting her when she gets something wrong. There's genuine affection there, not the performance most adults put on around children.

But whenever Amisra runs off to fetch something to show him—which happens often—his attention shifts to me.

Watching. Always watching.

Not the way most dark elves watch humans. Not with contempt or hunger or that casual cruelty that says we're toys to be broken when they're bored. Something else. Something I can't name. Curious and patient and still as deep water.

It makes my skin prickle. Makes me want to run.

Instead, I meet his gaze and refuse to flinch, even though my heart hammers against my ribs.

"How are you settling in?" he asks now, accepting the cup of tea I've prepared. We're in the solarium, where late afternoon light pours through spelled glass and turns everything golden. Amisra is in her room, supposedly changing into her dinner clothes but more likely playing with the enchanted doll he brought her.

"Well enough." I keep my tone neutral. Professional. "Amisra is a joy to care for."

"She speaks highly of you." He sips his tea, eyes never leaving mine. "And she's tricky to win over."

"I enjoy her curiosity. She's intelligent."

"She is." A pause. "You're good with her. Patient in ways I imagine many wouldn't be."

I don't know what to say to that. Is it a compliment? An observation? Some kind of test? With dark elves, kindness is often the sharpest blade—you don't see it coming until it's already buried in your ribs.

"She makes it easy," I say finally.

"Still." He sets down his cup with deliberate care. "Daryn chose well when he hired you."

The mention of his friend—my employer—reminds me to maintain distance. Valas might be kind to Amisra, might speak to me like I'm a person instead of property, but I know better than to trust it. Dark elves don't befriend humans. They use us. Sometimes gently, if we're fortunate. But always with purpose.

I need to remember that.

"I'm glad Lord Daryn is satisfied with my work," I say, injecting just enough formality to rebuild the walls between us.

Something flickers in his expression—amusement? Disappointment?—but it's gone before I can identify it. "Lord Daryn. So proper."

"It's appropriate."

"Is it?" He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "You've been here two weeks. Surely you've noticed Daryn doesn't stand on ceremony with those in his household."

"He's kind," I acknowledge carefully. "But that doesn't change what I am. What he is."

"And what's that?"

"He's a dark elf of the miou caste. I'm human. A servant." I meet his eyes, letting him see the steel I usually keep hidden. "Those facts don't change no matter how kind he is. No matter how much I care for his daughter."

Valas is quiet for a long moment, his gaze intense in a way that makes me want to look away. I don't. Won't give him the satisfaction.

Finally, he nods. "Fair enough. But for what it's worth—you're more than just a servant here. Amisra loves you. That counts for something."

It does. But it also makes everything more dangerous. Love is a luxury slaves can't afford.

Before I can formulate a response that won't reveal too much, Amisra comes bounding back into the room, her dress on backwards and her hair escaping its braid. She climbs into Valas's lap without hesitation, already launching into some elaborate story about the doll's adventures while she was supposed to be getting ready.

He catches my eye over her head, and there's something in his expression I can't read. Something warm and almost... wistful?

I look away first, busying myself with straightening the tea service even though it doesn't need straightening.

Don't trust him, I remind myself. Don't trust any of them.

But when Amisra laughs at something he says, pure and bright, and he smiles down at her with such obvious affection—I feel the walls I've built starting to crack despite my best efforts.