Page 29 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
She groans dramatically but climbs into her chair, swinging her legs as I set a plate of eggs and toasted bread before her. Watching her eat feels surreal—this normal moment before we step into something unknown. Part of me wants to memorize it, to hold onto the safety of our routine before testing whether the outside world can accept what we've built here.
The training college sprawls across the northern slopes of New Solas like a fortress of pale stone and gleaming metal. Wide courtyards connect angular buildings, their rooflines designed to accommodate the span of xaphan wings. Even from a distance, I can hear the sound of steel on steel, the crack of wooden training weapons, the sharp commands of instructors drilling their students in formations I can't begin to understand.
Young xaphan fill the spaces between buildings—some barely older than children, others with the lean muscle of near-adults. All of them wear the same dark training leathers, all move with the unconscious grace of their race, but there's an energy here that reminds me more of Ava at play than the terrifying warriors I'd imagined.
"It's so big," Ava breathes, her small hand finding mine as we walk through the main gates.
"The biggest military college for any xaphan," Rhyen confirms, nodding to the guards who straighten at his approach. Their respectful salutes make it clear that his reputation here goes far beyond simple instructor status.
We pass through a central courtyard where a dozen young xaphan practice sword forms in perfect synchronization, their movements flowing like a deadly dance. Ava stops walking entirely, transfixed by the precise choreography of their blades.
"Are they fighting?" she asks in a stage whisper that probably carries to half the courtyard.
"Practicing," Rhyen explains, crouching beside her so they're at eye level. "Fighting is what you do when someone wants to hurt you. This is learning how to protect yourself and the people you care about."
The distinction seems to make sense to her four-year-old logic. She nods solemnly, then tugs at his sleeve. "I want to practice here!"
"A quick lesson," he agrees. He draws his training blade—similar to the one he has at home but a little longer with dulled edges. "This is called a guard position. See how I hold my hands?"
He demonstrates the stance, movements fluid despite the sword being designed for someone else's grip. Ava watches with rapt attention, her violet eyes tracking every shift of his arms, every adjustment of his footing.
"It looks like dancing," she declares.
"Good fighters always make it look like dancing." His smile transforms his entire face, chasing away the shadow of military precision and revealing something warm and unguarded underneath. "The blade should move like it's part of your body, not separate from it."
I find myself watching them with an ache in my chest that I don't want to name. There's something so natural about the way they interact—Rhyen's infinite patience with her questions, Ava's complete trust in his answers. Like they've known each other for years instead of weeks.
Like they belong together.
The dangerous thought slides under my defenses before I can stop it, and I have to look away before the emotion building in my throat becomes something visible.
We move through the college grounds like a small procession, Ava's excitement infectious enough to draw smiles from even the most serious-looking cadets. Rhyen shows her the armory with its racks of gleaming weapons, explains the difference between training gear and actual battle equipment, lets her run her fingers along the smooth wood of practice bows that are taller than she is.
In the flight training courtyard, we watch advanced students practice aerial maneuvers—complex formations that send them spiraling through the air in patterns that make my head spin. Ava gasps and claps as they dive and soar, her own small form practically bouncing with the desire to join them.
"Could I learn to fly?" she asks Rhyen, and something in my chest clenches at the innocent question.
"You don't have wings, little star," he says gently.
"But you could carry me. You've done it before."
"That's different from flying yourself." His voice holds the careful neutrality of someone navigating dangerous emotionalterritory. "Flying is something xaphan are born knowing how to do."
Her face falls slightly, and I see him struggle with the urge to promise her something impossible. The fact that he doesn't—that he gives her honesty instead of false hope—makes me respect him even more.
"But," he continues, "there are other kinds of magic you might learn someday. Different gifts that are just as special."
This perks her up considerably, and she peppers him with questions about magic and gifts and whether demons can do things that xaphan can't. His answers are thoughtful and age-appropriate, never condescending but always honest about the complexities of the world she'll inherit.
Watching him with her is like watching someone discover a part of himself he never knew existed. Every protective gesture, every patient explanation, every moment where he adjusts his massive frame to accommodate her small presence—it all speaks to something deeper than simple kindness. He cares for her with the fierce tenderness of a father, even if neither of them would use that word yet.
And that terrifying, wonderful realization is what I'm grappling with when we round the corner near the advanced training rings and nearly collide with another instructor.
He's tall and sharp-featured, with the kind of pale perfection that speaks to xaphan nobility. His black hair is pulled back in a severe military braid, and his pale green eyes assess us with immediate displeasure. But it's the way his gaze fixes on Ava—the unmistakable disgust that twists his features when he takes in her small horns, her violet eyes, the obvious signs of her mixed heritage—that makes my blood turn to ice.
"Rhyen." His voice carries the kind of authority that expects immediate deference. "I wasn't aware we were allowing civilians on the training grounds."
Rhyen shifts forward almost imperceptibly, but I feel the change in him like a sudden drop in temperature. His wings spread slightly, not enough to be overtly threatening, but sufficient to create a physical barrier between us and the other man.
