Page 59

Ada

" S ee what I made!" Kiraz burst into the main room of Nadine's cottage, proudly holding up a lopsided crown of wildflowers. At barely five years old, her coordination was still developing, but her enthusiasm made up for any lack of precision. "It's a magic crown!"

Nadine smiled, pausing her work grinding herbs at the kitchen table. "It'sbeautiful little one. Who's it for?"

"For the grumpy shadow man," Kiraz announced with absolute certainty. "He needs to be prettier."

I nearly choked on my tea. "Kiraz, you can't just call him grumpy?—"

"But he is grumpy, Ada," she insisted with five-year-old logic, carefully using my name as we'd practiced. "His shadows are all twisty when he's sad. The crown will make them happy."

Iris, who had been quietly mending in the corner, hid a smile behind her needlework. "Perhaps we should visit the healing house," she suggested diplomatically. "I need to check on the patients anyway."

"Can we? Can we?" Kiraz bounced on her toes, clutching the flower crown carefully. "I want to see Uncle Sarp too! And give this to the shadow lord."

I hesitated. Part of me wanted to keep Kiraz away from Hakan as much as possible, but her eager face and the innocent flower crown in her hands made refusal seem churlish. Besides, supervised visits in daylight seemed safer than the alternative of her sneaking off to see them on her own.

"Very well," I agreed. "But only for a short visit. And you must be polite to our guests."

"I'm always polite," Kiraz declared with wounded dignity, then immediately contradicted herself by adding, "Even when they're grumpy and growly."

Twenty minutes later, we stood outside the healing house. Kiraz practically vibrated with excitement, the flower crown held reverently in both hands.

"Remember," I warned quietly, "short visit."

Kiraz nodded solemnly, then burst through the door the moment I opened it.

"Uncle Sarp! Grumpy shadow man! Look what I made!"

Inside the healing room, I found Hakan sitting by the window, shadows drifting lazily around his fingers as he regained his strength. Sarp was propped up in his bed, looking considerably better than he had yesterday but still pale beneath his bandages.

Hakan glanced up, startled by Kiraz's enthusiastic entrance and her continued use of "grumpy shadow man" as his title.

"I don't wear…decorations," he said with stiff formality, eyeing the flower crown with obvious wariness.

Kiraz was undeterred. She marched across the room and held out her creation. "It makes you the king of flowers. You have to wear it."

I bit my lip to suppress a smile at Hakan's obvious discomfort. The mighty Shadow Lord, feared across both realms, brought low by a child with a flower crown.

"I am already lord of an entire realm," he informed her with wounded dignity. "I don't require additional titles."

Kiraz's lower lip trembled—a warning sign I recognized all too well.

"Perhaps just for a moment," I suggested gently. "Since she made it especially for you."

Hakan shot me a glance of such profound betrayal that I nearly laughed aloud. Then, with the air of a man facing execution, he inclined his head so Kiraz could place the wildflower crown atop his dark hair.

"There!" Kiraz clapped her hands in delight. "Now you're pretty!"

Sarp, still bedridden from his wounds but never too injured for mockery, made a choking sound. "The prettiest Shadow Lord in all the realms," he agreed solemnly. "Truly fearsome."

Hakan's glare promised retribution when Sarp was well enough to defend himself. "Thank you," he said to Kiraz with surprising grace. "It's…colorful."

Kiraz beamed, then immediately turned her attention to Sarp, climbing onto his bed with the easy familiarity they'd developed since meeting the day before. "Uncle Sarp, will you tell me the story about the fox and the moon again?"

"Of course, little terror," Sarp agreed, his eyes crinkling with genuine affection. He shifted to make room for her beside him, wincing slightly but hiding the pain well.

Something dark flashed across Hakan's expression as he watched them—a flicker of what could only be jealousy at the easy rapport between Sarp and Kiraz.

"Kiraz," I intervened, noticing Hakan's rising tension, "perhaps we should let Sarp rest. He's still healing."

"I'm never too injured for my favorite storyteller," Sarp countered, ruffling Kiraz's dark hair affectionately. "And she promised to bring me fresh honey water after the story. Best medicine in both realms."

Hakan abruptly stood, removing the flower crown and placing it on the table with controlled precision. "I need air," he announced, striding toward the door.

"Can I come?" Kiraz asked, hopping down from Sarp's bed with unexpected agility. "I want to show you my special place!"

Sarp's face fell slightly as she abandoned their planned story time, though he tried to hide his disappointment behind a forced smile.

Hakan hesitated, clearly torn between his desire for solitude and some inexplicable pull toward the child. "If you wish," he finally said, his tone carefully neutral.

"I'll join you," I said, alarmed at the thought of Kiraz alone with Hakan. The less time they spent together without me as a buffer, the better.

I caught Sarp's eye as we prepared to leave, giving him a meaningful look that conveyed both apology and acknowledgment of the precarious situation. His slight nod told me he understood—he knew exactly why I couldn't let Hakan and Kiraz spend time alone together.

Outside, the afternoon sun bathed the village in golden light.

Kiraz skipped ahead, occasionally stopping to point out things of supreme importance to a five-year-old: a uniquely shaped rock, a butterfly with spotted wings, a puddle she claimed looked “exactly like Uncle Sarp’s nose when he’s sleeping. ”

“She’s quite attached to him,” Hakan observed, a sharp edge beneath the casual observation. “Despite having just met.”

“Kiraz bonds quickly with people who treat her with kindness,” I replied, careful to keep my tone light. “Sarp has a way with children.”

“Apparently.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “And I don’t?”

The question caught me off guard with its naked vulnerability. “You’re…less approachable,” I said diplomatically.

“I am the Shadow Lord,” he replied. “I’m not meant to be ‘approachable.’”

“Perhaps that’s why she’s so drawn to you,” I suggested. “Children are attracted to power and mystery. And you’re certainly both.”

That seemed to mollify him somewhat. His shadows calmed, settling around him like a cloak rather than writhing with agitation.

We followed Kiraz to her “special place”—a clearing at the edge of the village where wildflowers grew in abundance and a tiny stream trickled over smooth stones.

“This is where I practice my magic,” she informed Hakan seriously. “Where no one can see.”

I tensed at her words, at the dangerous territory she was inadvertently approaching.

“Your magic?” Hakan asked, and kneeled to her level with surprising grace for a man of his size. “What kind of magic do you practice here?”

“Both kinds,” Kiraz replied. “My light and my shadows.”

I moved forward, ready to intervene, but Hakan’s next question stopped me.

“Would you show me?” he asked, his voice gentler than I’d heard it in years. “I’ve rarely seen someone with both abilities.”

Kiraz nodded eagerly, pleased by his interest. She held out her small hands, palms up. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with her face scrunched in concentration, golden light bloomed in her left palm while shadows swirled in her right.

“Usually they mix together,” she explained, “but I’m learning to keep them separate when I want to.”

“Impressive control for one so young,” Hakan said, and though his tone remained measured, genuine admiration lay beneath it.

Kiraz beamed at the praise. “Can you teach me to make my shadows do tricks? Like making animals and stuff?”

Hakan glanced at me, silently seeking permission. I hesitated, then nodded. A simple lesson in shadow manipulation seemed harmless enough.

“Very well,” he agreed, and extended his hand where shadows gathered, darker and more substantial than Kiraz’s wispy attempts. “Watch.”

With subtle movements of his fingers, he shaped the darkness into the form of a tiny fox that pranced across his palm.

Kiraz gasped in delight. “It’s like a real animal!”

“Shadow constructs respond to your will,” Hakan explained, his tone serious but not unkind. “They take the shape you imagine, but they require focus and precision.”

For the next half hour, I watched as the Shadow Lord patiently taught my daughter—our daughter—the rudiments of shadow manipulation.

He was demanding but never cruel, exacting but never harsh.

It was a side of him I’d glimpsed in our early days together, before everything shattered, but had never expected to see again.

Kiraz proved an apt pupil, her natural affinity for shadow magic evident even with her limited training. By the end of the lesson, she had managed to create a wobbly but recognizable shadow butterfly that fluttered briefly above her palm before dissolving.

“I did it!” she exclaimed, and glanced up at Hakan with naked admiration. “Did you see?”

“Well done,” he acknowledged, and though the praise was restrained, genuine approval gleamed in his eyes.

Kiraz’s attention span, typical for her age, quickly shifted. “I’m going to show Mama my butterfly,” she announced, already turning toward the village. “And get cookies. Magic makes me hungry.”

Before I could stop her, she was running back toward the healing house, leaving me alone with Hakan. The air between us suddenly felt charged, heavy with unspoken questions.

“She has extraordinary potential,” Hakan said, his gaze following Kiraz’s retreating form. “With proper training, she could become more powerful than either of us.”

My heart quickened. “She’s just a child.”