"I'm Heidi," I manage, crouching down so we're at eye level. Up close, I can see the mix of her parents in her features—her father's strong bone structure softened by what must have been her mother's gentleness.
"That's a pretty name," she says solemnly. "I'm Irida. Are you going to live with us now?"
The question is innocent enough, but it unsettles me. Live here? In this house with its locked doors and magical barriers, with a man who thinks he owns me because of some cosmic accident?
"I don't think so, sweetheart," I tell her as gently as I can manage. "I have my own home."
"Oh." She looks disappointed, but bounces back with the resilience children seem to possess in endless supply. "Will you come play with me anyway? Ilyra was going to help me build a snow fort in the garden, but it's more fun with more people."
Behind her, Ilyra shifts nervously. "Irida, I don't think your father would?—"
"He said I could play outside as long as someone watched me," the little girl says with the logic of someone who's found a loophole and intends to exploit it. "And you'll be watching. She can help too."
She reaches out and takes my hand with the casual presumption of a child who's never been denied anything she truly wanted. Her small fingers are warm, almost hot, with the same unnatural heat I felt from her father. But where his temperature felt dangerous, hers is purely comforting—like being near a fireplace on a cold night.
"Please?" she asks, looking up at me with those molten gold eyes that could probably convince stone statues to dance. "I promise we'll have fun."
I should refuse. I should demand to be taken back to my room or allowed to leave entirely. Playing with Mihalis's daughter in his garden while his staff watches feels like accepting my situation, like admitting defeat.
But something in her expression reminds me of myself at that age, before life taught me that trust was a luxury I couldn't afford. Before I learned that wanting things only led to disappointment and pain. She's looking at me like I might actually be someone worth knowing, someone who might choose to stay because she asked nicely.
It's been so long since anyone looked at me that way.
"All right," I hear myself saying. "But just for a little while."
Her face lights up like sunrise, and she bounces on her toes with barely contained excitement. "Really? This is going to be fun! Ilyra, let’s go. She said yes!"
Poor Ilyra looks torn between following orders and disappointing the little girl who clearly owns everyone in this household. "I suppose... if we stay in the garden where Varos can see us..."
And just like that, I find myself being led through the house by a six-year-old xaphan who chatters about snow forts and winter games while her wings flutter with enthusiasm. The guards we pass don't try to stop us—apparently indulging Irida takes precedence over keeping me locked up, at least when proper supervision is involved.
I should be looking for escape routes, cataloguing weaknesses in the house's security. Instead, I find myself listening to her bright voice and wondering when I became the kind of person who could melt at a child's simple request for companionship.
This is dangerous territory. Caring about people, letting them matter—it only gives them power to hurt you later. But as Irida's warm hand squeezes mine and she points out the windows we pass with excited explanations of the garden beyond, I can't quite bring myself to pull away.
Maybe I can indulge this for an hour. What harm could there be in building snow forts with a little girl who looks at the world like it's full of wonderful possibilities?
The irony isn't lost on me that the daughter might accomplish what her father couldn't—making me want to stay.
7
MIHALIS
The Praexa meeting had been a waste of three hours—politicians posturing over simple things that could have been settled with half the words and twice the spine. By the time I escaped their endless circular arguments, the pinching sensation in my chest had grown from an irritation to something approaching genuine discomfort.
The bond. This ridiculous twist of fate that's apparently tied my life to a human thief with stormy eyes and a mouth that could cut glass.
Jelle's temple offers no more relief than the political theater. The Nashai greets me with the same mixture of sympathy and amusement she's worn since yesterday, her violet eyes bright with knowledge I wish she didn't possess.
"Still fighting it, I see." She doesn't look up from the ceremonial herbs she's grinding, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
"I'm not fighting anything. I'm looking for solutions." I pace the length of her sanctum, wings shifting restlessly against my back. The confined space makes them itch, but folding them completely feels too much like surrender.
"Ah yes, solutions." Now she does look up, setting her mortar aside to give me her full attention. "Such as having someone else kill her since you cannot?"
The words hit something dark and protective in my chest, making my jaw clench hard enough that my teeth ache. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't need to. It's written across your face like scripture." She rises from her cushion with fluid grace, moving to the altar where sacred flames dance without fuel. "Tell me, Mihalis—when you imagine her death, how does it feel?"
