Emery turned to face her siblings. Twin siblings. Half-twin siblings, for they shared the same father, yet not the same mother. She sighed, rubbing her forehead. The mere sight of this twelve-year-old girl and boy already threatened to bring a migraine upon her head.
"It seems you both forget who holds seniority in this house." She cast a sharp glare at them, but they did not flinch. The blonde girl with striking blue eyes—traits inherited from their father, a native of Velanthri—simply leaned her elbow upon her brother's shoulder. He was taller than both of them, and it was that most aggravating height which lent him the leverage to assume authority over her. She wished she could reduce him to a pulp, yet could only manage a few mild smacks here and there. At least she might contend with the blonde, since they were of equal stature.
"Please, spare me the trash," the blond mocked, rolling his eyes with careless audacity. Emery scoffed in reply.
Her mother had perished in giving birth to her. Emery had never beheld her mother's living visage, knowing her only through a handful of painted likenesses. Her father had remarried when she turned one, under the notion that he could not tend to her alone whilst striving to provide for the household. Though Emery understood the rationale, she bore no fondness for it. Many men were single fathers of more than one child—but she would not voice such thoughts. She remained grateful, at least, that he had achieved his station and never failed to keep food upon their table. Yet she despised his other family—the twins and their mother. They were wolves in sheep's clothing, through and through. The twins themselves were open in their nature; their mother, less so.
"Spare you the trash?" Emery sighed, inwardly resolving, 'Let us leave them be. Let us not kill them, yet.'
The three children had undertaken instruction in English and the Zathrîkul tongue, for the twins' mother hailed from the tribe of Zathrîkul. The language proved arduous to master, yet Emery had come to comprehend it fully—though they primarily spoke English, as it flowed more naturally from their tongues than any other dialect.
"Leave me be, Riven and Lyren. I have matters to attend," she declared, and with that, ascended the stairwell to her chamber upon the third floor. The manor rose four stories high.
Within her room, she unpacked her bag and set aside the necessaries she had carried for her bathing in the stream. Her thoughts wandered to the more unruly twin—whose name she had yet to learn. Had he glimpsed her bathing? Had he seen her bare form? The very notion sent delicious shivers coursing down her spine, and she cleared her throat, her face blooming crimson.
Remembering her duty to provide them food, she laid her bag upon the expansive bed, swathed in a white duvet—her favored colour—and departed her chamber, descending to the first-floor kitchen. There she beheld the cooks and chefs immersed in the preparation of the evening's meal.
"Lady Emery, you have returned!" squealed Anika, one of Emery's favored cooks, upon sighting her.
"I have." Emery's gaze roved over the offerings. Solid dishes, hearty soups, and delicate pastries. "May I have some buns?" she inquired, and Anika assented with a nod.
"Of course! We made plenty, knowing well your fondness. Indeed, Sir himself requested a generous quantity for you," she added, prompting a soft chuckle from Emery.
"He did, did he not?" Emery remarked, rhetorical in tone—the Sir in question being her father. "May I have, say… two servings?"
Anika nodded, arranging the buns upon two plates. "Do you have visitors?" she whispered, mindful that walls themselves bore ears, and that the presence of Madam necessitated caution.
"Kind of," Emery replied, moving past Anika to the head chef, a stately man. "Matthew," she greeted, her voice gentle and lilting, and Matthew turned to regard her.
"Lady Emery!" he exclaimed with a chuckle. The girl was never forbidden entry to the kitchen, even amid the preparation of any meal. "Are you hungry? You may partake of anything here," he offered, yet Emery shook her head.
"I am not very hungry. The buns will suffice."
"And here they are!" Anika chimed, sixteen years of age—three years Emery's senior.
"Mm…" Emery breathed, savoring the fragrance of the buns. "So wondrously fragrant," she murmured, and Anika nodded in silent approval.
"I shall use the back door," whispered Emery to Anika, who acquiesced, leading her discreetly through it.
The route was safer, and Emery wished to avoid her insufferable siblings. She moved through towering plants that veiled her slight figure until the gatehouse came into view. Beyond it, she perceived the unruly twin seated. At least he possessed some measure of decorum, sitting where the guardsmen could not observe him—not that they would speak without being prompted, in any case.
Upon reaching him, he discerned her presence ere she halted before him.
"Where is your brother?" she inquired, noting the gatehouse door remained closed.
"Sleeping," Zekar replied.
"Ah…" She bit her lips, then seated herself beside him—sufficiently distant to preserve propriety, yet close enough to extend the plate. "I have brought this for you both, yet he slumbers."
Zekar gathered the plates, their fingers brushing ever so lightly, sending Emery's pulse into tumultuous motion. She withdrew her hand with swift propriety.
"Eat… me and… you."
Emery blinked, comprehending that he wished her to share the meal with him. Zekar nudged the plate toward her, and she accepted it with a resigned sigh. She observed him rend a bun with the fervor of a beast—or perhaps, a dragon's scion. Emery had long been instructed in the lore of neighboring tribes; the Druvkaur, it was said, were descendants of dragons, though no member of the current generation had yet attained the power to assume true draconic form.