Page 5 of Monster's Secret Baby

Tonight, by the river, I'll remember what it means to be alive rather than merely existing. With her.

3

ADELLUM

Ileave Arkan's estate with reluctance, lingering at the wrought iron gates longer than necessary. My wings flex and stretch as I step onto the avenue leading back to the city center. New Solas spreads before me in terraced glory, white stone buildings climbing higher the closer they get to the city's heart. The spires pierce the sky like knives—elegant, deadly, reaching for something beyond their grasp.

Much like its inhabitants.

The walk home takes me through the Artisan Quarter, where galleries display works behind crystal windows. Several showcase my earlier pieces—the raw, honest ones created before fame polished away my edges. Before Sior decided which commissions I should accept, which noble houses deserved my attention, which parties would elevate my standing.

"Master Vey!" A shopkeeper calls, waving enthusiastically. "An honor to see you in the quarter!"

I offer a tight smile and nod but don't slow my pace. My thoughts remain tethered to a garden, to dirt-smudged hands, to eyes flecked with gold.

My building rises above the others on the avenue, its facade carved with intricate patterns that shimmer in afternoon light. The doorkeeper bows as I enter.

"Welcome home, sir. Master Vendrith arrived an hour ago. He's waiting in your studio."

Of course he is. Sior never wastes an opportunity to remind me of deadlines, obligations, expectations. I trudge up the spiral staircase, my wings dragging slightly against the smooth stone steps.

I pause outside my studio door, gathering the fragments of the mask I wear for Sior. The practiced smile, the focused ambition, the gratitude for his guidance. He helped me find a path after my parents passed, but I know he pushes me for a reason. He wants me to reach my potential, and I can't fault him for that.

My hand rests on the door handle. In the quiet moment before I enter, I allow myself to remember the scent of crushed herbs and warm skin.

Then I push the door open.

My studio, once my sanctuary, feels foreign now. Canvas after canvas stacks along the walls—commissions for noble houses, pieces promised for upcoming exhibitions, obligations to patrons. The space that once witnessed wild creation, nights of feverish inspiration, now feels stale. Suffocating.

Sior paces near the windows, his dark wings folded tightly against his back, a sign of his barely contained impatience. His olive skin looks sallow in the studio light, his black hair slicked back so severely it seems painted onto his skull.

"Finally." He stops pacing, his thin lips pressed into something approximating a smile. He's not affectionate, but he's the closest thing to family I have. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten where you lived."

"I was with Arkan." I move to the basin in the corner, washing paint from under my nails—remnants from yesterday's work. "Discussing the winter exhibition."

"And what did he say?" Sior's eyes narrow, calculating behind the veneer of casualness.

I shrug. "The usual. He'll host. He'll invite his connections."

"Good, good." Sior picks up a half-finished canvas—a commission for some minor noble's summer residence—studying it with clinical detachment. "Did you see the invitation I left on your desk? The Praexa Morvant is hosting a solstice gala. Everyone will be there."

"Everyone always is." I dry my hands on a cloth, watching him inspect my work like it's merchandise to be assessed rather than art.

"This is strategy, Adellum." He sets the canvas down, moving to the next one. "Morvant has three unmarried daughters. All of good family, excellent connections."

My head snaps up. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Sior's face smooths into practiced patience. "You're thirty-three, Adellum. Your bachelor status makes you... less valuable to certain circles. A settled man with a family indicates stability, maturity. The right partnership could open doors."

Ice crystallizes in my veins. "I don't need doors opened by marriage."

"Don't you?" He moves toward my desk, fingers flicking through correspondence I've neglected. "The commission from House Tenrith fell through. They chose Varens instead."

"Varens' work is derivative garbage."

"Varens is married to a praexa's niece." Sior's voice cuts like glass. "Art isn't just about talent. It's about connections, perception, strategy."

My jaw clenches. "I'm not discussing this."

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