Page 20 of Monster's Secret Baby

When my bowl is empty—scraped clean with the last of the bread—she leads me through the kitchen to a narrow staircase. The room above is indeed small, with sloping ceilings and a window that looks out over the village. A single bed nestled beneath the eaves, a small washstand, a trunk for belongings. It's simple, bare—and perfect.

"I..." My throat tightens unexpectedly. "I can work, too. To offset the cost. I cook, and I'm good with plants—herbs and such."

Marda's eyebrows rise. "My garden's gone wild this year. Too busy with the restaurant." She studies me again with that penetrating gaze. "You know cooking and gardening, do you?"

"Yes. I worked in a noble's house in New Solas." The words taste bitter. I swallow hard.

"New Solas, eh?" She doesn't push, just nods thoughtfully. "Fine. Room and board for garden work and help in the kitchen three days a week."

Relief floods me. "That's more than fair. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I work my people hard." But there's warmth beneath her gruffness. "Get some sleep. You look dead on your feet."

After she leaves, I unpack my meager possessions. The room slowly transforms—a scarf draped over the washstand, my small collection of dried herbs lined up on the windowsill, my extra clothes folded neatly in the trunk.

I force myself to smile, to feel pride in this new beginning. This is mine. A foundation stone.

But when darkness falls and the sounds of the restaurant below fade to silence, the walls close in. I curl onto the narrow bed, pulling the blanket tight against the hollow ache in my chest. And then—only then—do I allow the tears to come.

I bury my face in the pillow to muffle the sound as grief breaks free. I weep for the whispered promises, for the future I'd foolishly begun to imagine. For Adellum's laugh, his touch, the way he'd called me "little bird" when no one was listening.

"Never again," I whisper into the darkness, my voice raw. "Never again will I be so foolish. Dreams are for children and fools."

The tears eventually slow, leaving me hollow. Tomorrow I'll be stronger. Tomorrow I'll begin building a life that depends on no one but myself.

10

ADELLUM

Istand at the edge of my balcony, wings tightly folded against my back, watching the sun sink into New Solas like it's drowning. Three weeks. Three weeks since I've heard her laugh, felt her skin against mine, watched her eyes crinkle when she teases me.

Three fucking weeks since Harmony vanished.

I curl my fingers around the pale blue geode in my pocket, its rough edges biting into my palm. The pain feels right. Necessary. The small stone was meant to be her birthday gift, set in silver to match her eyes when they catch the light. Now it's just another reminder of everything I've lost.

Below, torches flicker to life across the city as dusk settles. Somewhere down there, she has to be. Has to.

"You missed another appointment." Sior's voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp as obsidian. He stands in the doorway to my chambers, his dark wings held precisely at the formal angle that's always irritated me—too controlled, too perfect.

I don't bother turning. "Cancel it."

"I already did. Along with the six others you've ignored this week." His footsteps approach, measured and even. "I've spent years building your reputation, and you're dismantling it stone by stone over some human servant."

The geode cuts deeper as I clench my fist. "Don't."

"This has gone beyond foolishness, Adellum. Lord Merifel is threatening to withdraw his patronage if you don't complete his family portrait by?—"

I whirl around, wings snapping open with enough force to knock over a small table. "I don't give a fuck about Lord Merifel's patronage!"

Sior doesn't flinch. Never flinches. His olive-skinned face remains impassive, those dark eyes calculating as always. "You might not care now, but you will when you're penniless and forgotten."

I laugh, and the sound is hollow even to my own ears. "Forgotten? Everyone's talking about me, aren't they? 'Poor mad Adellum,' 'Fallen so far,' 'Lost his mind like most artists do.' Tell me—which version are you spreading?"

"I'm trying to salvage what's left of your career while you're determined to burn it all down." Sior glances around my chambers, taking in the chaos—canvases slashed, pigments spilled across the floor, sketches of Harmony's face covering every surface. His lip curls. "Your talent is wasted like this."

"My talent." I move past him into my studio, where half-finished commissions gather dust. I pick up a brush, crusted with dried paint. "My fucking talent is the only thing you've ever cared about."

Sior follows me, his wings tucking tight against his back as he navigates the mess. "That's not fair. I raised you up from nothing?—"

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