Page 2 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
His sketching charcoal sits scattered across the main workbench, along with three empty teacups and a plate that holds nothing but crumbs. The man could design wardsthat would make the praexa themselves take notice, but remembering to eat? That requires intervention.
I stack the dishes and straighten his papers without reading them—some habits from the syndicate days die hard. Privacy was a luxury we couldn't afford then, but here it's a gift I give freely. His work belongs to him until he chooses to share it.
The kitchen knows my footsteps. I've walked these stone floors so often now that my bare feet have memorized every slight irregularity, every place where the magical resonance runs just a fraction warmer. The larder holds fresh brimbark and zynthra from yesterday's market run, along with a wheel of sharp cheese that will pair well with the dark bread cooling on the windowsill.
I start checking that we'll have everything we need for dinner. Most days I cook. We do have help around the house, but I like taking care as much as I can in an estate this size.
I find quiet contentment in these moments. They are simple. Easy. The life that he gave me. All because Domiel took notice of me. All because over weeks and months he talked to me, coaxed me out of my shell, and over time…
He fell in love with me.
He bought me out of the indentured contract well over a year ago, but I'm still here. I manage his household because otherwise, it would be a mess. But truly, I will always stay by his side.
Some might think I'm foolish. A human woman in love with xaphan?
But Domiel will always be everything to me.
2
DOMIEL
The morning light streams through the crystal-paned windows of the Vaelthorne estate's upper gallery, casting prismatic rainbows across my drafting table. Each beam splits and refracts through the enchanted glass, creating a kaleidoscope that would be beautiful if I had time to appreciate it. Instead, I lean closer to the parchment spread before me, squinting at calculations that refuse to balance.
The stabilizer matrix for this floating manor should be straightforward—I've designed dozens of them over the years. But Lord Vaelthorne wants his estate to hover three hundred feet above the cliffs, not the standard hundred and fifty. The additional height throws everything off. Weight distribution, wind shear compensation, the magical resonance needed to maintain structural integrity at that altitude.
My fingers trace over the ink lines, following the intricate patterns of force and counterforce. The sigil work is precise, each symbol flowing into the next with mathematical elegance. But there's a gap in the center, a missing piece that makes the whole design incomplete.
I reach for the vial of powdered starcrystal and sprinkle a small amount across the parchment. The crystal dust settles into the inked lines, glowing faintly as it responds to the magical resonance embedded in the design. Most of the matrix lights up in steady blue-white radiance, but that central section remains dark.
"Damn," I mutter, sitting back in my chair.
The binding lattice. Of course it would come down to the one component I can't synthesize or substitute. The ethereal anchors for a structure this ambitious require a genuine moonshard lattice—the kind that only forms in specific geological conditions, where underground water sources meet deposits of raw celestial ore. On this continent, there's exactly one quarry that produces it, and it's two days northwest of here by zarryn.
I run my hands through my hair, feeling the metal clasps that hold it back dig into my fingers. The Vaelthorne contract has a completion deadline that's already breathing down my neck. Lady Vaelthorne wants to host the Autumn Conclave at her floating estate, which means I have exactly eighteen days to finish the stabilizer matrix, oversee the installation, and complete the final bindings.
Eighteen days. For a project that should take twenty-five.
The commission fee is substantial enough to fund my workshop for the next year, but that's not what's driving the knot of tension in my shoulders. I don't take contracts I can't complete. My reputation—everything I've built in Soimur—depends on delivering exactly what I promise, when I promise it.
I pull out a fresh sheet of parchment and start sketching alternate configurations. Maybe I can distribute the load differently, use multiple smaller lattices instead of one central anchor. The calculations flow from my fingertips, symbols and numbers filling the page in precise columns.
But even as I work, part of my mind drifts to the estate I left behind this morning. To warm amber eyes and the way Kaleen's mouth curves when she's trying not to smile. She would have been moving through the morning routines when I departed—checking deliveries, tending the garden, probably shaking her head at the chaos I left in my workshop.
The thought of her brings an unexpected steadiness to my hands. She has a way of grounding me that I've never experienced before, like an anchor point in the middle of the most complex design. When the work threatens to consume me entirely, her presence reminds me there's something beyond calculations and crystal matrices.
I can picture her now, probably organizing the mess of papers I abandoned on my workbench, stacking my forgotten teacups with that particular brand of exasperated affection she reserves for my worst habits. She won't read my designs—she never does, respecting the privacy of work even when curiosity must kill her—but she'll make sure everything is clean and ready for when I return.
I remember a time before her where my work could have consumed me. But now, Kaleen is worth more to me than anything else. I'm lucky she delivered to me that day two years ago.
The alternative stabilizer design takes shape beneath my fingers, but it's not elegant. Three separate anchor points instead of one central lattice, which means three times the complexity in the binding rituals. More room for error, more components that could fail. It would work, but barely.
I set down my stylus and stare at the calculations. This isn't good enough. Not for a project of this magnitude, not for the reputation I've spent years building. The Vaelthorne estate deserves better than a hastily improvised solution.
The morning light shifts as clouds pass overhead, throwing shadows across my calculations. I need that moonshard lattice, and I need it within the next five days if there's any hope of meeting the deadline. I can't go, so I guess I'll need to find a courier that can and quickly.
The zarryn'shooves clatter against the cobblestone as I guide her through the estate gates, the familiar sound echoing off the pale stone walls. The sun hangs low on the horizon, painting everything in shades of amber and gold that remind me of Kaleen's eyes. My shoulders ache from hunching over calculations all day, and the weight of the unsolved problem presses against my skull like a physical thing.
The stable boy takes the reins with practiced efficiency, but I barely acknowledge him. My mind is still tangled in matrices and binding ratios, in the elegant solution that continues to elude me. Three anchor points instead of one. Functional, but graceless. Like building a cathedral out of scrap metal.
