"Mmm." She nods against my shirt, already growing drowsy again. "But this time I was faster. I flew all the way to the mountain peaks where the snow never melts."
"That's very fast indeed." I shift to lie beside her on the narrow bed, my wing curving around us both like a living blanket. The position is awkward given my size, but comfort has never been the point of these moments.
"Dad?" Her voice grows smaller, more tentative. "Will you make sparkles? The pretty ones that dance?"
How can I refuse her anything when she asks like that?
The truth is, I never can tell Irida no. This little girl owns me.
I extend my free hand palm-up, calling fire magic with the gentle control I reserve only for these quiet moments. Golden flames bloom above my fingers, no larger than flower petals but bright enough to cast dancing shadows across the star sigils painted on her ceiling.
Irida makes a soft sound of delight as I encourage the flames to spiral upward, twisting around each other in patterns that shift and change with each heartbeat. The magic responds to my will like an extension of my own body, creating shapes that would be impossible with mundane fire—thaliverns with wings of pure light, tiny dragons that chase their own tails, flowers that bloom and fade in endless cycles.
"They're beautiful," she whispers, her eyes tracking the dancing lights with the focused attention children reserve for things that truly capture their imagination. "Tell me the story about the first fire?"
The request is familiar, part of our established bedtime ritual whenever I'm home early enough to indulge her. I've told this particular tale hundreds of times, but she never grows tired of hearing it.
"Long ago," I begin, my voice dropping to the storyteller's cadence that sends her deeper into drowsy contentment, "before there were xaphan or humans or any of the peoples who walk the earth now, there was only darkness and cold stone."
The flames above my palm shift to illustrate the story, forming a perfect sphere of black that gradually gives way to tiny points of light.
"But Solis the Sun-Father grew lonely in his realm of eternal light, and so he reached down to touch the cold stone with one finger." A single golden flame breaks away from the others, descending slowly toward an imaginary surface. "Where he touched, fire was born—not the consuming fire that destroys, but the gentle fire that gives life and warmth."
Irida's breathing has grown deep and even against my chest, but I continue the story anyway. These moments are as much for me as they are for her, a reminder of what matters beyond the endless complications of running an empire built on violence and desire.
"The first fire was lonely, just as Solis had been, so it called out to its father for companions." More flames join the dance above us, spinning in complex patterns that cast our shadows long across the walls. "And Solis, who loved his child, breathed life into the fire until it became the first xaphan."
Her small hand curls against my shirt, completely relaxed now in the way only children can achieve. Trust absolute andunquestioned, faith that nothing in her world will change while she sleeps safely in her father's arms.
If only that were true.
The flames continue their dance above us as I hold her, providing just enough light to see the peaceful expression on her sleeping face. Tomorrow will bring new complications—the Praexa delegation, whatever demands the soul bond will make, the impossible human woman currently locked in my guest room. But for now, there is only this: my daughter's steady breathing, the familiar warmth of home, and the dancing lights that push back the darkness.
Exactly as it should be.
6
HEIDI
The door seals with a soft click that might as well be a death knell. I throw myself against it immediately, clawing at the wood with fingernails that accomplish nothing except leaving shallow scratches in the grain.
"Let me out!" The words tear from my throat, raw and desperate. "You can't just?—"
But he can. The bastard can and he has, and now I'm trapped in this elegant prison cell with its burgundy curtains and dark wood furniture that probably costs more than most people see in a lifetime.
My fists pound against the door until my knuckles split, leaving small smears of blood on the polished surface. The sound echoes strangely, muffled by whatever magic he's used to seal me in. No one will hear me scream. No one will come.
The familiar taste of panic rises in my throat—copper and bile and the memory of other locked doors, other men who thought they owned me. My chest constricts, breath coming in sharp gasps that make my vision swim at the edges.
No. No, I will not break. Not here, not for him.
I force myself to step back from the door, wrapping my arms around my ribs as I struggle to slow my breathing. Think, Heidi. Panic gets you nowhere. Panic gets you dead or worse.
The burgundy dress I'm still wearing feels like a costume now, expensive fabric that restricts my movement and marks me as something I'm not. The skirt tangles around my legs as I move toward the windows, searching for another way out of this gilded cage. I shuck off the useless brass cuffs that are only weighing me down and consider tying the dress up so I can move easier. But I’ll need to blend in once I’m back in the city.
The glass overlooks what must be the back of his property—manicured gardens that stretch into shadows beneath towering walls topped with iron spikes. Even if I could break the window without alerting half the household, it's at least a twenty-foot drop to the ground below. Not possible. Not without breaking something important.
I test the window anyway, running my fingers along the frame in search of a latch or weakness. Nothing. The glass is thick, reinforced with the same subtle magic that hums through the walls. Everything in this place is designed to keep things in or out, depending on which side of the barriers you find yourself on.
