Page 2 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)
DOMIEL
T he morning light streams through the crystal-paned windows of the Vaelthorne estate's upper gallery, casting prismatic rainbows across my drafting table.
Each beam splits and refracts through the enchanted glass, creating a kaleidoscope that would be beautiful if I had time to appreciate it.
Instead, I lean closer to the parchment spread before me, squinting at calculations that refuse to balance.
The stabilizer matrix for this floating manor should be straightforward—I've designed dozens of them over the years.
But Lord Vaelthorne wants his estate to hover three hundred feet above the cliffs, not the standard hundred and fifty.
The additional height throws everything off.
Weight distribution, wind shear compensation, the magical resonance needed to maintain structural integrity at that altitude.
My fingers trace over the ink lines, following the intricate patterns of force and counterforce. The sigil work is precise, each symbol flowing into the next with mathematical elegance. But there's a gap in the center, a missing piece that makes the whole design incomplete.
I reach for the vial of powdered starcrystal and sprinkle a small amount across the parchment.
The crystal dust settles into the inked lines, glowing faintly as it responds to the magical resonance embedded in the design.
Most of the matrix lights up in steady blue-white radiance, but that central section remains dark.
"Damn," I mutter, sitting back in my chair.
The binding lattice. Of course it would come down to the one component I can't synthesize or substitute.
The ethereal anchors for a structure this ambitious require a genuine moonshard lattice—the kind that only forms in specific geological conditions, where underground water sources meet deposits of raw celestial ore.
On this continent, there's exactly one quarry that produces it, and it's two days northwest of here by zarryn.
I run my hands through my hair, feeling the metal clasps that hold it back dig into my fingers.
The Vaelthorne contract has a completion deadline that's already breathing down my neck.
Lady Vaelthorne wants to host the Autumn Conclave at her floating estate, which means I have exactly eighteen days to finish the stabilizer matrix, oversee the installation, and complete the final bindings.
Eighteen days. For a project that should take twenty-five.
The commission fee is substantial enough to fund my workshop for the next year, but that's not what's driving the knot of tension in my shoulders. I don't take contracts I can't complete. My reputation—everything I've built in Soimur—depends on delivering exactly what I promise, when I promise it.
I pull out a fresh sheet of parchment and start sketching alternate configurations. Maybe I can distribute the load differently, use multiple smaller lattices instead of one central anchor. The calculations flow from my fingertips, symbols and numbers filling the page in precise columns.
But even as I work, part of my mind drifts to the estate I left behind this morning.
To warm amber eyes and the way Kaleen's mouth curves when she's trying not to smile.
She would have been moving through the morning routines when I departed—checking deliveries, tending the garden, probably shaking her head at the chaos I left in my workshop.
The thought of her brings an unexpected steadiness to my hands.
She has a way of grounding me that I've never experienced before, like an anchor point in the middle of the most complex design.
When the work threatens to consume me entirely, her presence reminds me there's something beyond calculations and crystal matrices.
I can picture her now, probably organizing the mess of papers I abandoned on my workbench, stacking my forgotten teacups with that particular brand of exasperated affection she reserves for my worst habits.
She won't read my designs—she never does, respecting the privacy of work even when curiosity must kill her—but she'll make sure everything is clean and ready for when I return.
I remember a time before her where my work could have consumed me. But now, Kaleen is worth more to me than anything else. I'm lucky she delivered to me that day two years ago.
The alternative stabilizer design takes shape beneath my fingers, but it's not elegant. Three separate anchor points instead of one central lattice, which means three times the complexity in the binding rituals. More room for error, more components that could fail. It would work, but barely.
I set down my stylus and stare at the calculations. This isn't good enough. Not for a project of this magnitude, not for the reputation I've spent years building. The Vaelthorne estate deserves better than a hastily improvised solution.
The morning light shifts as clouds pass overhead, throwing shadows across my calculations. I need that moonshard lattice, and I need it within the next five days if there's any hope of meeting the deadline. I can't go, so I guess I'll need to find a courier that can and quickly.
The zarryn's hooves clatter against the cobblestone as I guide her through the estate gates, the familiar sound echoing off the pale stone walls.
The sun hangs low on the horizon, painting everything in shades of amber and gold that remind me of Kaleen's eyes.
My shoulders ache from hunching over calculations all day, and the weight of the unsolved problem presses against my skull like a physical thing.
The stable boy takes the reins with practiced efficiency, but I barely acknowledge him.
My mind is still tangled in matrices and binding ratios, in the elegant solution that continues to elude me.
Three anchor points instead of one. Functional, but graceless.
Like building a cathedral out of scrap metal.
I follow the winding path through the garden, past the carefully tended beds of nightblooming flowers and the small fountain that tinkles peacefully in the evening air. The sound usually soothes me, but tonight it feels distant, muffled by the churning thoughts I can't seem to silence.
Then I see her, and everything else falls away.
Kaleen sits on the sun-warmed stone steps leading to the eastern terrace, her legs curled beneath her and a book balanced on her knees.
The fading light catches the rich chestnut waves of her hair where it's escaped from her braid, creating a soft halo around her face.
She's changed from her work clothes into a flowing dress of deep green that brings out the gold flecks in her eyes.
Those eyes find mine as I approach, and her expression shifts from contentment to concern in the space of a heartbeat. She closes the book without marking her place, setting it aside as she unfolds gracefully from the steps.
"You look like you've been wrestling with demons all day." Her voice carries that particular blend of warmth and wry observation that never fails to ground me. "And losing."
I attempt a smile, but it feels strained even to me. "Just the usual battles with impossible physics and unrealistic deadlines."
She moves closer, close enough that I can see the faint lines of concern creasing her forehead.
Her hand lifts toward my face, then stops just short of touching, as if she's asking permission.
I lean into the almost-caress, and her fingers trace the edge of the scar at my temple with a gentle touch.
"What's wrong? Really?"
The question cuts through all my careful defenses. Not because it's sharp, but because it's gentle. Because she asks like my answer matters to her in ways that go beyond curiosity or politeness. Like whatever burden I'm carrying, she's willing to help me bear it.
I catch her hand in mine, pressing her palm against my cheek for a moment before pulling it away. Her skin is soft and warm, callused in places from honest work, and wearing the delicate gold bracelet I had made to cover the faded brand on her wrist.
"The Vaelthorne project." The words come easier than I expected. "I need a specialized binding lattice for the stabilizer matrix. Moonshard grade, and there's only one quarry that produces it. Two days northwest, in the foothills near Kaerion."
Understanding floods her features. "Your deadline."
"Eighteen days. If I take the time to travel… Well, the deadline is already tighter than I like?—"
"And you'll miss it." She finishes the thought, then steps back slightly, her mind already working through possibilities.
I can see it in the way her eyes focus somewhere past my shoulder, in the subtle shift of her posture that means she's calculating angles and options. "What about your usual couriers?"
I asked around on my way home with no luck. "All contracted elsewhere. Autumn construction season."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I watch her thoughts play across her face like clouds passing over the sun. When she looks back at me, her expression is determined.
"I could go."
The words hit me like ice water. "Absolutely not."
"Why not? I know magical materials better than most of your couriers. I've handled every variety of runestone and crystal matrix your workshop has ever used. I can identify quality moonshard lattice, negotiate fair pricing?—"
"Kaleen." My voice comes out sharper than I intend, and she stops mid-sentence. I soften it, reaching for her hands again. "You've never traveled that distance alone. The roads between here and Kaerion aren't exactly safe for anyone, let alone..."
"Let alone a human woman?" There's steel beneath the silk of her voice now, the quiet strength that first caught my attention in the stoneworking yards. "I spent years managing dangerous deliveries for the syndicate, Domiel. I'm not some delicate flower who wilts at the first sign of hardship."