Page 12 of Monster's Secret Baby

"Three days, Adellum. Three days you've been locked in here." Sior's voice cuts through the silence, sharp as a blade. "Are you deliberately avoiding me?"

I continue working, adding a stroke of amber to catch imaginary sunlight. "I'm meeting a deadline. You're the one who insisted on the Praetor's commission, remember?"

"The Praetor can wait." He stalks across the room, wings tight against his back—never a good sign. When Sior feels truly agitated, his wings pull in like a predator preparing to strike.

I sigh, setting down my brush. "What's so urgent it couldn't wait until tomorrow's meeting?"

Sior circles me, his dark eyes assessing. His fingers steeple together, ink-stained at the tips from contracts and ledgers. "We need to discuss your future. Your real future."

"My real future is right here." I gesture to the half-finished canvas. "Creating."

"No." He slams his palm on my workbench, sending jars of pigment trembling. "You need to understand—it's not just about art anymore. It's about legacy."

The word hangs between us. Legacy. As if I haven't heard this sermon before.

"Your talent has elevated you beyond mere entertainment, Adellum. You represent something now." His voice softens, the way it did years ago when he found me—hungry and desperate for someone to see my worth. "The Council is watching. The Praexa are watching."

I cross my arms. "Let them watch. My work speaks for itself."

"This isn't about your work!" Sior's wings flutter in agitation, displacing air that sends my sketches scattering. He doesn't bother to help me collect them. "It's about who you are. What you represent. A xaphan of your stature who refuses to bind? It looks... rebellious. Unstable."

My stomach tightens. "Since when is my personal life anyone's business?"

"Since you became the face of New Solas artistry." Sior paces now, gesturing wildly. "You think the upper circles care about your paintings? They care about what you symbolize. Tradition. Continuity. Proper bloodlines."

The word 'bloodlines' makes me flinch. I turn back to my canvas, trying to recapture my earlier focus. "I'm not interested."

"You don't have the luxury of not being interested." His voice drops to that silky tone that means he's already made arrangements. "I've found the perfect match. Lilleth Novar."

The name stops me cold. "The sculptor?"

"Ambitious. Beautiful. Impeccable lineage." Sior's thin lips curve into a smile. "Her flight feathers are pure silver, Adellum. Silver. Do you know how rare that is?"

I feel sick, imagining some stranger's wings entwined with mine in a binding ceremony. All I can think of is Harmony's face, her eyes crinkling at the corners when she laughs at my terrible jokes. The way she looks at me like I'm just a man, not a symbol or an investment.

"Her family is connected to the Third Praexa," Sior continues, oblivious to my revulsion. "The announcement of your bonding would be political gold. Think of the doors it would open."

"I don't want doors opened." My voice comes out harsher than intended. I don't like pushing back against Sior—or disappointing him. But it's all I seem to do anymore. "I want to be left alone to create."

Sior's expression hardens. "That's not an option anymore. You outgrew that luxury when you accepted my guidance."

"When I was a starving child with no other options," I snap, turning to face him fully. "I'm not that desperate boy anymore."

"No, you're not." His eyes narrow. "You're successful because I made you successful. Because I understood what your talent needed—structure, discipline, connections."

The worst part is he's not entirely wrong. I owe Sior for pulling me from obscurity, for teaching me how to navigate the complex social hierarchies of New Solas. But I'll be damned if I'll let him arrange my life like it's another one of his contracts.

"I'm not binding with Lilleth Novar. Or anyone else you've picked out."

Sior's wings twitch—a tiny tell that he's preparing for confrontation. "At least meet her. One dinner."

"To what end? So I can disappoint her too?"

"To show respect for the process." His voice drops low. "The Council is watching, Adellum. The whispers about your... peculiar habits... are growing louder. Your isolation. Your refusal to participate in flight ceremonies."

The nausea in my stomach intensifies. My hands clench around the edge of the canvas. "One afternoon. Here. That's all."

Sior's posture relaxes slightly, mistaking my words for capitulation. "You'll like her. She's intelligent, creative?—"

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