Page 41 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
I describe the ethereal gardens I helped design years ago, where colored light pools in crystal fountains and the very airshimmers with magic. Where thalivern feed on nectar that glows like starlight, their wings catching and refracting the ethereal illumination until the whole garden seems to pulse with gentle radiance.
Braylon listens with rapt attention, occasionally interjecting with "Wow!" or "More!" when I pause. But it's Kaleen's reaction that captures most of my focus.
She's leaning forward slightly, her amber eyes bright with something that might be recognition. Not memory, exactly, but something deeper—a response to beauty that bypasses conscious thought and speaks directly to the soul. It's the same expression she used to get when I described my work, back when we would lie in bed after making love and I would tell her about the projects I was designing.
"The flowers sing at sunset," I continue, watching her face. "Different notes depending on their color. Purple ones sound like bells, golden ones like flutes. When the wind blows through them, it's like listening to an entire orchestra made of light and petals."
Her breath catches slightly, so quietly I almost miss it. But I've spent months cataloguing every small shift in her expression, every tell that reveals what she's thinking. She likes this story. More than likes it—it resonates with something essential in her nature.
"Flowers!" Braylon announces, clapping his hands together. "Sing!"
"That's right, little one. They sing." I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in the sweet scent of his hair. "Maybe someday Papa will take you to see them."
The words slip out before I can stop them, heavier with implication than I intended. Kaleen's eyes meet mine over Braylon's head, and I see the question there—the careful hope she's trying not to let herself feel.
Someday. The word hangs between us like a bridge not quite built, like a promise not quite made. But for the first time since I found her again, it feels like a possibility rather than a dream.
The shift happens gradually,like morning light bleeding through the forest canopy. What began as careful visits becomes something more natural—the three of us moving together through the rhythms of daily life as if we've always been this way.
"There," Kaleen says, pointing toward a cluster of silver-barked trees deeper in the woods surrounding Veylowe. "Braylon loves the hollow tree. He pretends it's a cave."
We're walking the forest paths that wind behind her cottage, Braylon toddling between us with the determined concentration only an eighteen-month-old can manage. His small legs work overtime to keep up, but he refuses any offer to be carried—too fascinated by every fallen branch and interesting rock to slow down.
The woods here are different from the ethereal groves near Soimur. Wilder, older, with moss-thick trunks that seem to hold centuries of secrets. Shafts of afternoon sunlight filter through the canopy in golden columns, illuminating dancing motes of pollen and the occasional flash of a lunox darting between the undergrowth.
"Cave!" Braylon shouts when he spots the hollow tree, his whole body vibrating with excitement. He makes a beeline for it, his unsteady gait making me want to hover protectively behind him. But Kaleen catches my arm with gentle fingers.
"He's fine," she says, and her touch sends warmth racing up my arm. "He's done this a dozen times."
I force myself to stay put, watching as our son disappears into the hollow with delighted giggles echoing back to us. Thesound makes something deep in my chest unclench—he's happy here, safe and loved and free to explore his world without fear.
"How did you find this place?" I ask, settling beside her on a fallen log that makes a natural bench.
"Wandering, mostly." Her voice carries that distant quality it gets when she skirts too close to the edges of her missing memories. "The first few weeks after... after I got here, I couldn't sleep much. I'd walk the woods at night until I was tired enough to rest without dreams."
Without dreams of me, she doesn't say, but I hear it anyway. I wonder if she knows how often I ended those same months staring at the ceiling of our bedroom in Soimur, wings spread across the space where she should have been, counting the hours until I could resume searching.
Braylon emerges from the hollow with a triumphant "Papa! Mama! Look!" clutching what appears to be a perfectly ordinary stone but holds it like he's discovered treasure.
"Very nice, little one," I tell him seriously, because his finds are always worth celebrating. "Is it smooth?"
He nods vigorously and toddles over to press it into my palm for inspection. The stone is indeed smooth, worn by countless seasons of rain and wind until it fits perfectly against my thumb. "This is a good one," I pronounce. "Very smooth indeed."
Kaleen laughs—real laughter, bright and unguarded—and the sound hits me with the force of recognition so strong it's almost physical pain. That laugh. I've heard it echo through our kitchen in Soimur, seen it light up her face when she found me cursing at a particularly stubborn ward matrix, felt it vibrate against my chest when she'd curl against me after we'd made love.
"He has quite the collection now," she says, watching Braylon examine his stone with scientific intensity. "Smooth ones,speckled ones, ones with interesting shapes. He lines them up by his bed every night before sleep."
The domestic detail catches me off-guard with its sweetness. Our son, methodically arranging his treasures like a tiny curator building his own museum of wonder.
"Like his father," I murmur without thinking, remembering my own childhood obsession with collecting runestones and crystal fragments.
Kaleen glances at me with raised eyebrows. "Was that what you collected as a child?"
"Stones with magical properties. My mother despaired of my room—every surface covered with rocks I was convinced held some secret power." I smile at the memory. "Most of them were just pretty quartz, but I found a few genuine pieces. Drove my tutors crazy trying to classify them properly."
"And did they? Hold secret power?"
"Some did. Not much, but enough to make the searching worthwhile." I watch Braylon toddle toward another interesting specimen. "The tiniest spark of magic can be significant if you know how to recognize it."
