Page 25 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
"Guard up," Rhyen calls, his voice carrying easily across the morning stillness. "Remember what we practiced about footwork."
Ava's face scrunches in concentration, her little feet shuffling into what I assume is supposed to be a fighting stance. She looks absurd and perfect—dark curls escaping from yesterday's ribbon, still in her nightgown with bare feet, wielding a sword like she was born to it.
They circle each other with exaggerated seriousness. Rhyen moves with fluid grace even while obviously restraining himself to match her pace. His silver hair catches the early light, andthere's something boyish in his expression that makes him look younger than his apparent years.
"Now," he says, raising his sword. "Show me your best?—"
Ava charges with a war cry that would make a seasoned warrior proud, her blue blade swinging in a wild arc. Rhyen parries with theatrical flair, stumbling backward as if her tiny strike carries the force of a giant.
"Oh no," he groans, pressing his free hand to his chest. "I'm wounded. Mortally wounded by the fierce warrior Princess Ava."
She giggles, advancing with renewed confidence. "I'm not a princess. I'm a dragon slayer."
"My mistake." He blocks another of her swings, this time spinning dramatically and dropping to one knee. "Defeated by the legendary dragon slayer. My reputation is ruined."
Their next exchange ends with Ava landing a solid tap against his ribs. Rhyen's reaction is immediate and completely over the top—he cries out as if she's run him through with a real blade, staggers backward with his hand pressed to the "wound," then collapses into the grass with a more theatrical death scene than any stage actor would dare attempt.
Ava squeals with pure delight. She throws her wooden sword aside and launches herself at his prone form, landing on his chest with her knees and pumping her tiny fists in the air.
"I won! I won! I'm the best sword fighter in all of New Solas!"
"You're the best sword fighter on all of Aerasak," Rhyen agrees solemnly, apparently speaking from beyond the grave.
She bounces on his ribs. "All of Aerasak?"
"Every continent. Every realm. There has never been and will never be a warrior to match your skill."
The praise makes her beam so brightly I'm surprised the sun doesn't pale in comparison. She leans down to poke at his closed eyes. "Are you really dead?"
"Completely dead. Vanquished by superior swordsmanship."
"But if you're dead, how can you talk?"
"Ghost." He opens one eye to peer at her. "Very chatty ghost."
She considers this with the seriousness of a scholar. Then, apparently deciding that chatty ghosts are perfectly reasonable, she settles more comfortably on his chest.
"Can ghosts fly?"
"The good ones can."
"Are you a good ghost?"
"I try to be."
In one fluid motion, he sits up and wraps his arms around her small form. She shrieks with delighted surprise as he surges to his feet, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms circling his neck.
And then they're airborne.
My breath stops entirely. I've seen him fly before—been up there with him. But I've never just let myself admire him.
His wings unfold in a rush of soft blue feathers, catching the morning light like scattered sapphires. They're beautiful—more beautiful than I let myself remember during those stolen glances. Powerful and graceful, with darker blue markings near the tips that somehow make the pale color more striking by contrast.
He rises slowly, carefully, spiraling over the garden in gentle loops that make Ava laugh until she hiccups. She's fearless in his arms, trusting him completely to keep her safe. Her dark curls stream behind her like a banner, and her nightgown flutters around her legs.
They're playing some version of their sword fighting game mid-air, Ava making swooshing sound effects while she "attacks" invisible enemies from her perch against his chest. Rhyen banks and turns according to her directions, carrying them through elaborately choreographed battles against imaginary dragons and evil sorcerers.
I should probably be terrified. A reasonable mother would be demanding he bring her daughter down immediately, would be cataloguing all the ways this could end in disaster. But watching them together—seeing the careful way he holds her, the controlled power of his flight, the absolute trust between them—I feel nothing but wonder.
