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"What?"
"Teach me what she likes for breakfast. What stories make her laugh. Which songs help her sleep. Teach me three years of being her father."
That night, he stays until midnight.
By the third week, I find myself watching the sun's position in the sky, counting the hours until Araton brings Millie home. They've established traditions already—she runs to him with pebbles she's found that match his wing colors; he pretends each one is a priceless treasure. They have inside jokes I don't understand, silly songs with made-up words.
The jealousy I expected never materializes. Instead, there's a warmth in my chest when they're together, a completeness I hadn't realized was missing.
"Mama, can Papa stay for storytime again?" Millie asks one evening, her voice muffled against my neck as I carry her up to bed.
"If he wants to."
"He wants to," she says with the absolute certainty of childhood.
After she's asleep, we sit on my small porch, a respectful distance between us that somehow feels more intimate than touch. The night is velvet-dark around us, the air heavy with summer heat and unspoken possibilities.
"Why did you really come south?" I ask, breaking the fragile silence.
Araton's wings shift slightly—a tell I've begun to recognize when he's considering his words carefully. "I told myself it was for a change. New opportunities."
"And the truth?"
He turns toward me, moonlight catching on the sharp planes of his face. "I never stopped looking for you, fierce one."
The old nickname sends a shiver through me. I glance away, afraid of what he might see in my eyes. "I never thought you'd want... this. A child. Responsibility."
"You never gave me the chance to want it." His voice holds no accusation now, just quiet certainty. "But I do want it."
And I don't dare let myself hope he means more than his daughter.
21
ARATON
Inever expected love to feel like this—a tether anchoring me to earth after years of drifting. Every time Millie's tiny hand slips into mine, I feel something crack open inside my chest, a warmth spreading through hollow spaces I didn't know existed.
"Papa, look!" She points to a row of smooth river stones she's arranged across her bedroom floor. "I made a pattern like you showed me. See? Gray, white, blue, gray, white, blue!"
I crouch beside her, wings folding carefully to avoid knocking over her treasured collection. "That's perfect, sweetheart. You have a gift for patterns."
Her golden eyes—my eyes—sparkle with pride as she beams up at me. "Can we practice flying today?"
The question makes my chest tighten. Her wings are still too small, too delicate for true flight, but I can't bring myself to disappoint her. "How about we practice wing strength instead? Those muscles need to be strong before you can take off."
She nods seriously, already positioning herself on tiptoes, her silver-flecked wings spreading with determination. I guide her through the same exercises my father taught me, modified for her tiny frame—gentle stretches, controlled flutters,movements designed to build the muscles that will eventually hold her aloft.
"Like this?" She strains, her face scrunched in concentration as her wings quiver with effort.
"Exactly like that." I demonstrate the movement, my larger wings creating a slight breeze that ruffles her black curls.
My daughter. The thought still staggers me. For centuries, I've sought my place—climbing from minor courier to trusted advisor, building connections across territories, earning respect through wit and cunning. But nothing has ever felt as right as this—teaching Millie how to strengthen her wings in the dappled sunlight of her bedroom.
Later, she insists on showing me every corner of Saufort. Her small legs work double-time to keep pace with mine as she points out landmarks with the gravity of an official tour guide.
"That's where Miss Harmony works," she explains, gesturing to a small restaurant with weathered wooden tables spilling onto a patio. "She makes the best sweetcakes in the whole world. And that's where Uncle Adellum sometimes sells his paintings." She points to the village square where vendors set up stalls on market days. "And over there is where Mama goes to get special plants sometimes."
I absorb every detail, mentally mapping this place that shaped my daughter's first years. The village is smaller than I initially thought, intimate in a way that explains the easy familiarity Millie has with everyone we pass. Shop owners wave, women carrying baskets stop to ruffle her hair, elderly men nod respectfully. I even catch a few curious glances aimed at me—not hostile, just watchful.