Page 22

ARATON

I never 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.

"And over there is Mama's shop!" Millie's excitement peaks as she points to the building I've become intimately familiar with over the past weeks.

We cross the street, and I catch a glimpse of Ronnie through the window, her auburn hair falling forward as she measures something into a small jar. She tucks a strand behind her ear with practiced precision, her movements economical and focused.

My wings shift restlessly, an involuntary response I can't seem to control around her anymore.

"Can we go see her?" Millie tugs at my hand, oblivious to the complicated emotions churning beneath my composed exterior.

"Of course." I allow myself to be pulled toward the shop, telling myself it's solely for Millie's benefit. A lie I'm becoming less convinced by each day.

The small bell above the door announces our arrival. Ronnie looks up, and for a heartbeat, something soft and unguarded flickers across her face before she schools her expression.

"Mama! I showed Papa the whole village and told him about the time the river got too high and Uncle Ady had to carry me on his shoulders!"

"Did you now?" Ronnie's lips curve into a smile, and I catch myself tracking the movement. "I hope you didn't talk his ear off."

"I enjoy her stories," I say, meeting Ronnie's gaze over our daughter's head. "She's a remarkable guide. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree when it comes to knowing exactly what people need."

The compliment lands softly between us. Ronnie's cheeks flush slightly, her gray eyes widening just enough that I know she caught my meaning. Her shop is meticulously organized in the same precise way she used to arrange her supplies in her old storefront—everything in its place, nothing wasted.

"Mama, can Papa stay for dinner again?" Millie asks, already pulling herbs from the lower shelves she's allowed to touch.

"If he'd like to," Ronnie answers, her eyes still on mine.

"I'd like to," I reply honestly.

That evening, after a meal of roasted root vegetables and fresh bread that Ronnie baked herself, we put Millie to bed together. I watch as Ronnie tucks the blankets around our daughter, smoothing back wild curls from her forehead with a tenderness that makes my throat tight.

"Tell me about the stars again, Papa," Millie mumbles sleepily.

I sit on the edge of her bed, careful not to disturb her nearly-asleep form. "The stars are ancient beings who watch over us from the heavens. They collect our stories and weave them into constellations..."

By the time I finish, her breathing has deepened into sleep, small silver wings twitching occasionally with her dreams. Ronnie stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching us with an expression I can't quite decipher.

When we retreat to the main room, silence settles between us—not uncomfortable, but charged with potential.

"I noticed your herb garden could use some attention," I say finally, the words coming out before I've fully formed the thought. "I could help, if you'd like."

Ronnie tilts her head, studying me with those perceptive gray eyes. "You know about herb gardens now?"

"I know about many things." I allow a smile to curve my lips. "And what I don't know, I learn quickly."

To my surprise, she doesn't hesitate or push back as she once would have. Instead, she nods toward the back door. "It does need work. The zynthra is overtaking everything."

The night air carries the scent of meadowmint and rich soil as we step into the small garden behind her shop. Moonlight catches on the silver threads in my wings as I kneel beside her, careful to keep them folded tight so they don't disturb the delicate plants.

"Show me what needs doing," I say quietly.

The moonlight silvers the edges of the herbs, casting delicate shadows across Ronnie's garden.

She kneels beside a patch of zynthra, her movements precise and practiced as she parts the vibrant leaves with calloused fingers.

I watch her hands—strong, capable hands that have built a life here, that have raised our daughter.

"These ones," she says, guiding my attention to particular stems. "See how the leaves have this slight curl at the edges? And the color is deeper, more vibrant? That's when they're perfect for harvesting."

I lean closer, inhaling the sharp, earthy scent. "And these others?"

"Too young." She shakes her head. "Give them another week. The stems need to be firmer."

Her shoulder brushes against mine as she shifts to check another plant. Neither of us pulls away. This newfound comfort between us feels fragile, precious—a tentative bridge replacing the burning intensity that once defined our encounters.

We work in companionable silence, me following her lead as she shows me which plants to trim, which to leave. The rhythm is soothing—her murmured instructions, the soft sounds of our breathing, the occasional rustle of my wings adjusting to accommodate our movements.

Finally, I gather my courage. The question has been burning inside me for weeks.

"Ronnie," I say softly, keeping my eyes on the dreelk leaves I'm carefully trimming. "Why didn't you tell me about Millie?"

Her hands freeze mid-motion. I can feel tension radiating from her body, see the slight rise of her shoulders as she inhales sharply. I hurry to continue before she can retreat behind her walls.

"I'm not blaming you," I clarify, setting down the shears and turning to face her fully. "Clearly, you did everything right. Our daughter is..." I search for words adequate to describe the miracle that is Millie. "She's wonderful. Perfect. You've given her an incredible life here."

Ronnie's expression softens marginally, the moonlight catching in her gray eyes as she finally meets my gaze. Something vulnerable flickers there before she looks away, back to the plants.

"I was afraid," she admits, her voice barely audible. "Afraid you'd want to take her. And what can a human do to stop a xaphan from taking what they want?"

Her words strike me like a physical blow. I sit back on my heels, wings drawing tight against my spine in shock. "You thought I would—" I struggle to keep my voice level. "Ronnie, I know we were never serious, but did you really think I'm the type of man who would tear a child from her mother?"

She yanks a weed from the soil with unnecessary force. "What was I supposed to think? I didn't know what kind of man you were beyond getting into my bed."

The words sting, but I can't deny their truth. Our relationship had been defined by those heated encounters, by the intensity we found in each other's bodies while keeping our hearts carefully guarded.

"You're a good father," she continues, her tone softening slightly. "Better than I expected. But how long do you plan on staying around? You have a life elsewhere. Responsibilities. Connections."

"I don't plan on going anywhere." The words emerge from somewhere deep inside me, a truth I hadn't fully acknowledged until this moment. "This is where I want to be."

She swallows hard, her throat working as she absorbs my words. After a long moment, she nods, just once, before returning to her task with renewed focus.

We continue working in silence, but it's different now—weighted with unspoken possibilities. I find myself replaying her words, examining every interaction we've ever had through this new lens of understanding.

Had she really believed I would be so callous? So cruel? And why does that assumption hurt so much?

The realization hits me with startling clarity: I've always had feelings for her. From that first encounter in her shop, when she stood fearless and defiant before me. Through every monthly visit, every heated night, every morning I left before sunrise—part of me had already begun to belong to her.

Had she truly not seen it? Or had I hidden it so well that even I hadn't recognized its depth until now, kneeling beside her in this moonlit garden with our daughter sleeping peacefully inside?

I glance at Ronnie's profile, struck by how the silver light traces the determined line of her jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between her brows. She's beautiful in her focus, in her quiet strength.

And I'm terrified by how much I suddenly want her to see me—not just as Millie's father or as the xaphan who visits her bed, but as a man who might be worthy of her trust.