"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 myhand!"
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."
"Iamstill." 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 isboring."
"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 againthat 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.
