Page 5 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
Instead, my blood turns to ice water.
2
RHYEN
The afternoon market hums with its usual energy—vendors calling their wares, coins changing hands, the general bustle of commerce that fills New Solas's northern district. I'm cutting through on my way back from the military college, my wings folded tight against my shoulders to avoid knocking over displays or bumping into shoppers.
That's when I catch the scent.
It stops me cold in the middle of the thoroughfare. Demon heritage, unmistakable and sharp as copper pennies, but underneath it something else—something young and innocent and utterly out of place in a xaphan city.
I scan the crowd, following my nose until I spot her near a spice merchant's colorful stall. A little girl, maybe four years old, with thick black curls that catch the light and skin the color of warm caramel. She's standing perfectly still, hands clasped behind her back in a formal posture that seems far too mature for her age.
But it's her eyes that give her away completely. Deep violet with flecks of gold at the centers, glowing faintly with the telltale sign of demonic ancestry. And she's alone.
Every instinct I've honed over decades of military service kicks into high alert. A demon child, unattended, in the heart of xaphan territory. I've never seen such a thing. Either someone's lost track of her, or something much worse has happened.
I approach slowly, crouching down when I'm close enough that she notices me. No sudden movements. Children spook easily, and this one has every reason to be wary of strangers.
"Hello there," I keep my voice gentle, pitched low enough that nearby shoppers won't overhear. "Are you looking for someone?"
She tilts her head, studying me with those luminous eyes. There's no fear in her expression, only curiosity. "You have wings."
"I do." I can't help the slight smile that tugs at my mouth. Direct and to the point—I like that in a conversation partner. "What's your name?"
"Ava." She bounces slightly on her toes, energy barely contained in her small frame. "My mama says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers, but you don't look scary."
"Your mama sounds very smart. Where is she?"
The bounce stops. Ava's brow furrows as she glances around the market, suddenly looking very young and uncertain. "I don't know. I…I lost her."
Christ. A lost child in a crowded market is concerning enough without the added complexity of her heritage. If the wrong person spots those telltale eyes, or catches her scent the way I did...
"Well, let's find her then." I straighten slightly, scanning the crowd while keeping my voice calm. "What does your mama look like?"
"She has pretty hair, and she always holds my hand tight." Not a great description, but I don't press as Ava's voice gets smaller. "I lost her." She looks on the verge of tears.
"It's all right." I crouch back down, meeting her eyes. "We'll find her. I'm very good at finding people."
That seems to reassure her. "What's your name?"
"Rhyen."
"That's a funny name." She giggles, the sound bright and infectious. "Are you a soldier? You're really big like a soldier."
"I used to be. How did you know that?"
"You stand up straight like the men in my storybooks." She demonstrates, puffing out her small chest and squaring her shoulders in an adorable approximation of military posture. "And your wings are pretty. Are they soft?"
The innocent question catches me off guard. Most adults, especially non-xaphan, tend to avoid mentioning my wings at all. But children see the world differently.
"They are. Maybe your mama can tell you if it's all right to?—"
"Mama!" Ava's shriek cuts through the market noise like a blade.
I follow her gaze to see a scuffle near one of the food stalls. A human woman with ash-brown hair is struggling against a burly vendor's grip, her face pale with panic. Even from this distance, I can see the family resemblance—the same delicate bone structure, the same determined set to her jaw.
The woman breaks free with a violent twist that sends the vendor stumbling, and her eyes lock on mine across the crowd. The look she gives me is pure terror, the kind that comes from recognizing a threat to everything you hold dear.
