Page 39 of His Emotional Support Snack

He holds the boy by the throat. Kalan dangles in the air, his small hands prying desperately at the iron-clad gauntlet choking off his oxygen.

Four Serpent guards flank my uncle, their venomed daggers drawn, turning to face me as I breach the room.

I do not raise my sword.

I slam the flat of my palm against the stone doorframe.

A localized gravity warp detonates from my core. The chaotic energy snaps outward, bypassing Zatori entirely and striking the four guards. The gravitational pull of the room reverses instantly for them. The four dark elves scream, their boots tearing free from the rug as they are launched violently upward.

They slam into the vaulted stone ceiling with bone-crushing force.

I snap my fingers.

The gravity reasserts itself. The guards plummet. I do not let them hit the floor. The Deceiver’s shadows detach from the walls, manifesting as solid, jagged spikes of dark matter. The shadows impale the falling guards mid-air, tearing through their armor and flesh with absolute, terrifying ease. Dark blood rains down on the woven rugs.

The room plunges back into a sickening silence, broken only by Kalan’s weak, wheezing gasps.

I take a slow, deliberate step into the room. The purple static crackles off my shoulders, warping the air pressure until the glass shards on the floor vibrate.

"Drop the boy, Zatori," I command. The voice does not sound like my own. It is a vibrating, demonic hum that rattles the stone walls.

Zatori’s slit-pupils contract. The elder lord takes a slithering step backward, his massive tail scraping against the debris. The display of raw, unfiltered power unnerves him. The dampening smoke in the air burns away instantly under the heat of my restored core.

"Take one more step, Zuirvih, and I crush his windpipe." Zatori tightens his grip on Kalan’s throat. "I will snap his neck before your blade clears the distance."

I freeze.

The feral instinct screams to tear him apart, to carve the flesh from his skull, but the calculation of the Deceiver remains. I cannot cross the room fast enough to stop the contraction of his fist. A direct assault guarantees the boy’s death.

"You covet the Tagnadaet fortune," I purr, dropping the volume of my voice, letting the hypnotic cadence of my patron deity take control. "You poisoned me for a decade. Yet, here you stand, hiding behind a half-blood child. The God of Pain must be deeply disappointed in your cowardice."

"I am securing the line!" Zatori snarls, the sickly green magic flaring around his iron armor. "You polluted the bloodline! You harbor a human stray, elevating her above the Khuzuth! You are unfit to rule Vhoig!"

"Am I?"

I release a slow, controlled breath. The purple static in the room thickens, forming a dense, suffocating mist.

I split my consciousness. The chaotic magic weaves seamlessly through the smoke.

From the shadows near the vanity, a flawless, solid illusion of my frame steps forward. It wears the identical midnight-blue armor, the same silver braids coated in blood. From the shattered window, a second illusion materializes. From the doorway, a third.

Within seconds, a dozen identical iterations of Zuirvih Tagnadaet encircle the elder lord.

Zatori’s serpentine tail thrashes in sudden panic. He spins, his green eyes darting wildly among the towering phantoms.

"A parlor trick!" Zatori hisses, clutching the boy tighter. "The Deceiver’s mirrors! I will not fall for it!"

"It is only a trick if you guess incorrectly, uncle."

The twelve illusions speak in perfect unison. The overlapping, vibrating voices echo from every corner of the room, a disorienting, maddening symphony of mockery. The phantoms draw their longswords, the steel ringing out in a synchronized, deafening chorus. They step forward as one, tightening the circle, their eyes blazing through the smoke.

Zatori spins again, raising his free hand, preparing to blast the nearest illusion with his green magic. His attention is entirely consumed by the twelve warlords pressing in on him.

He forgets the fragile, bleeding human kneeling behind his tail.

Esme does not hesitate. She does not wait for a command.

She lunges.