Page 15

15

HARMONY

I wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist, careful not to smear flour across my face despite the heat making my skin slick with sweat. The kitchen windows are thrown open, but the summer afternoon hangs heavy and motionless, refusing to stir even a hint of breeze through the restaurant.

"Marda, I swear the gods are trying to cook us alive today." I punch down the bread dough with more force than necessary. "If this weather doesn't break soon, I'll have to start serving the food raw."

Marda's laugh rolls through the kitchen like distant thunder. "Been five summers in Saufort, and you still complain like a newcomer." She hefts a pot of stew onto the counter with arms that never seem to tire. "Heat like this means good business. Everyone too lazy to cook at home."

I smile despite myself. Five years. Five years of safety, of building something resembling a life, of watching Brooke grow from a squalling infant into the fierce little storm of a girl playing in the garden behind the restaurant.

Through the back door, I can see her crouched beside Joss, their heads bent together over a lump of clay. Her pale blond curls catch the sunlight, so much like her father's that sometimes it feels like a knife between my ribs. But today, I push the thought away.

"Mama! Look what Joss showed me!" Brooke bursts through the door, proudly displaying a misshapen clay bowl with uneven edges. Her silver eyes shine, another inheritance I try not to dwell on. "It's for your herbs!"

"It's beautiful, little love." I kneel to her level, genuinely impressed by the care in her small fingerprints pressed into the wet clay. "We'll put it on the windowsill when it's fired."

Her smile could light the darkest corner of Saufort. Four years old and already so determined to make her mark on the world.

"Harmony, table six needs another round of blackberry tea." Marda hands me a tray. "And Tam's gone and upset Eira again. Something about her dreelk being too bitter for his pies."

I roll my eyes. "Those two need to either fight it out or kiss already."

"I heard that!" Tam calls from the dining room, but there's a smile in his voice.

The afternoon drifts by in the rhythm I've come to love—the clink of plates, the hum of conversation, Brooke's laughter as she moves between tables, charming coins from regular customers with her stories. My little entrepreneur.

It happens when I'm balancing three plates of roasted zarryn and dreelk stew. A crash from the corner, followed by Brooke's voice, higher and tighter than usual.

"It's MINE! I made it!"

I turn to see her face flushed crimson, tiny fists clenched at her sides, facing off against Tam's grandson who holds the clay bowl above his head, just out of her reach.

"Brooke," I call sharply, setting down the dishes. "We don't yell inside."

But something's different. The air around her seems to vibrate, a static charge raising the fine hairs on my arms. I've seen this before—rare moments when emotion surges through her too powerfully to contain. Magic. Her father's magic.

"Give it BACK!" she screams.

The clay bowl flies from the boy's hand—not falling, but shooting across the room as if thrown. Glass shatters. A woman shrieks. And suddenly every plate on every table begins to rattle.

"Brooke!" My voice is swallowed by the chaos as cups slide off tables, herbs wilt in their pots along the windowsill, their leaves curling and blackening before my eyes. A chair topples backward. Someone screams.

I push through the suddenly panicked crowd, heart hammering against my ribs. This is what I've feared since the first golden spark danced from her infant fingers—exposure, discovery, the village turning on us when they realize what she is. What lives in her blood.

"Everyone stay calm!" I shout, but Brooke's magic feeds on the panic, growing stronger. The windows rattle in their frames. A clay pitcher explodes, sending shards and water flying.

I reach for her, but the air around her feels wrong—thick and charged with energy I don't understand and can't control. Her eyes have gone luminous, silver light bleeding from them.

"Brooke, sweetheart, you need to breathe." My voice shakes. "Look at mama, focus on?—"

A dark figure steps between us, moving with impossible grace through the chaos. Broad shoulders block my view for a moment, and then I hear it—a voice I've spent five years trying to forget, deep and melodic, as he murmurs something, kneeling in front of Brooke. I feel the shift of his magic, magic that's touched me so tenderly on cold nights, and I know he's counteracting hers.

The rattling stops. The air settles. The light fades from Brooke's eyes, leaving her small and suddenly exhausted.

And the figure straightens, gathering my daughter into his arms with stunning ease, massive gray wings folding slightly to cradle her against his chest. Wings I once traced with wandering fingertips in the dark.

"There now, little bird," Adellum says, his silver eyes—the exact match to our daughter's—scanning Brooke's face with naked wonder. "That's quite a storm you've got inside you."

The world tilts beneath my feet. Adellum. Here. Holding our daughter.

"You're tired yourself out," he continues, his voice softer than I remember, one large hand gently smoothing Brooke's wild curls. "Magic that strong takes practice to control."

Brooke blinks up at him, confusion mingling with curiosity instead of fear. "You made it stop hurting."

"I did." His smile is small but genuine, the one I used to coax from him in private moments, not the dazzling mask he wore for his admirers. "It's a trick I learned when I was not much older than you."

My heart hammers so loudly I'm sure everyone in the silent restaurant can hear it. Five years of running. Five years of building walls around our life. And now he's here, my nightmare and the father of my child, looking at Brooke like she's the answer to every question he's ever asked.

I can't move. My muscles lock in place, frozen as I stare at the impossible tableau before me—Adellum cradling my daughter like she's the most precious thing in the world, and Brooke's tiny hand resting trustingly against his chest. The chest I once pressed my ear to, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

I wonder if she can feel the connection they must share, the magic calling to each other.

But this isn't the Adellum I knew. This isn't the man who whispered poetry into my hair and laughed when I stole his paintbrushes.

He's changed. There's a hardness to him now, a dangerous edge that prickles against my skin like static. The softness around his mouth is gone, replaced by a tense line that speaks of years spent clenching his jaw. His cheekbones stand out sharper than before, as if time has carved away everything unnecessary.

Yet he cradles Brooke with a terrifying tenderness, his massive hands—capable of crushing stone—adjusting to support her small body with practiced ease. Those hands brush a curl from her forehead with the delicacy of a man handling spun glass.

"Your magic is very beautiful," he tells her, voice pitched low and gentle. "But it needs direction, like water needs a riverbank."

Brooke studies him with that serious gaze she gets when encountering something new and fascinating. "Are you like me? Can you make things fly?"

His laugh is a shadow of its former self. "I'm exactly like you, little bird. And I can teach you to make far more than things fly."

It's the possessive note in his voice that finally unfreezes me. The way he says "little bird"—the nickname he always called me—sends a chill down my spine.

When his eyes lift to meet mine, I see it: he's here for us. He's not asking. He's not begging. He's claiming.

And for the first time in years, I feel true, bone-deep fear.

I thought I outran him but it seems that Adellum's true nature is now on display. A cruel xaphan taking whatever he wants.

"Put my daughter down," I manage, voice steadier than my trembling hands. "Now."

The restaurant has emptied, patrons slipping out during the confusion. Even Marda stands frozen by the kitchen door, sensing something dangerous unfolding. Only Ansel remains in the corner, his healer's instincts keeping him present in case of trouble.

Adellum's wings adjust, the massive gray appendages arching slightly as he sets Brooke down with reluctance. But he keeps one hand on her shoulder, a casual gesture that might as well be a brand of ownership.

"Daughter," he repeats, the word reverent and accusing simultaneously. His silver eyes, once warm when they looked at me, now burn with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. "I don't remember you having a daughter, Harmony."

The room seems to shrink around us. I move forward, forcing myself to walk steadily across the floor despite my leaden limbs.

"Brooke, come here." I extend my hand, willing it not to shake.

Brooke hesitates, looking between us with uncomfortable perception. "He stopped the hurting, Mama. He knows how to make the magic behave."

"I know, sweetheart. Come here anyway."

Adellum's fingers tighten fractionally on Brooke's shoulder before he forces himself to release her. I wonder if he knows she is his or if he's assumed the worst of me. I'd rather the latter.

I pull Brooke against me, positioning myself between them. Up close, I can see the changes time has wrought on him more clearly. Tiny scars I don't recognize mark his face and hands. The unruly white-blond hair I once ran my fingers through is cropped shorter, emphasizing the sharpness of his features. He's still beautiful—painfully so—but it's a beauty that's been tempered in fire, all softness burned away.

He looks deadly. Which is what he is to me.

"Mama?" Brooke tugs at my skirt. "Who is he?"

Before I can answer, Adellum crouches to her eye level, ignoring my protective stance. His massive wings fold against his back, making him appear smaller, less threatening—a deliberate manipulation that I recognize from our early meetings.

"I'm someone who's been looking for your mama for a very long time, little bird." His voice gentles, but his eyes remain fixed on mine, challenging. "And now that I've found you, I'm not going anywhere."

I tighten my grip on Brooke. I cannot trust this new, hardened Adellum. Not with my heart, and certainly not with our daughter.