Chapter 5 Mihalis
MIHALIS
The familiar weight of black iron gates and obsidian lanterns greets me as I descend toward the basalt walls of my home. Each ember-filled lantern pulses in recognition of my approach, the enchantments I wove into this place years ago responding to my presence like loyal hounds.
I should be at Vestige right now, buried in ledgers and finalizing arrangements for tomorrow's Praexa delegation meeting with Grix.
The representatives are notoriously particular about protocol, and any misstep could cost me months of careful negotiation.
Instead, I'm carrying a snarling human thief through my front gardens because the gods decided tonight was an excellent time to upend my carefully ordered existence.
My boots crunch against the smoky quartz pathway as I stride past the night-blooming flame lilies that line the approach to my home.
Their petals burn without consuming, casting flickering shadows across Heidi's face where she's pressed against my chest. She's stopped struggling, but I can feel the tension in her small frame, coiled like a spring waiting for the first opportunity to bolt.
Smart girl. Unfortunate that it won't help her.
The front door swings open before I reach it, revealing Thera's sharp-featured face creased with disapproval. My head cook and unofficial house manager takes one look at the woman in my arms and raises an eyebrow that could cut glass.
"Working late again, I see." Her tone carries the particular brand of censure only someone who helped raise you can manage. "Though your usual companions don't require quite so much... assistance walking."
"Not now, Thera." I know she means the associates that usually come over for a drink and a meeting. I never bring women back here. I wouldn't dare.
Which is why she's staring so hard right now.
I brush past her into the entry hall, my boots echoing against black marble shot through with veins of gold. The massive chandelier overhead flickers in response to my irritation, enchanted flames dancing higher as my control slips.
Heidi's head swivels as I carry her through the space, taking in the weapons displayed along the walls and the high, arched ceiling that vanishes into shadow above us.
Her gray-blue eyes are wide but alert, cataloging every detail like the practiced thief she is.
Escape routes, potential weapons, anything that might give her an advantage.
She won't find any. I built this place to be a fortress, not a cage, but the distinction becomes meaningless when your prisoner is determined to flee.
The guest room I have in mind sits on the second floor, far enough from Irida's quarters to ensure my daughter won't be disturbed by whatever tantrum the human decides to throw. I take the stairs two at a time, my wings folding tight against my back to avoid catching on the marble banister.
"Where—" Heidi starts to speak, but I cut her off with a look.
"Save your breath. You'll need it for screaming later." Something I'm sure she'll do plenty of when she starts cursing me.
Her mouth snaps shut, but the fire in her eyes burns brighter. Good. Anger I can work with. Fear makes people unpredictable.
The guest room door stands open, revealing a space I haven't thought about in months.
Dark wood furniture, deep burgundy curtains, a fireplace that hasn't seen use since the last time I entertained business associates who required overnight accommodations.
It's comfortable enough without being welcoming—exactly what I need for an unwanted houseguest.
I deposit Heidi in the center of the room with less ceremony than I used to carry her up here. She stumbles slightly as her feet hit the carpet, catching herself against the foot of the bed before whirling to face me with murder in her expression.
"You can't just—"
"Stay put." The words are sharp, edged with the authority I use to run Vestige and everything else in my life that requires absolute obedience. "Don't test me tonight, little thief. I'm not in the mood for games."
She opens her mouth to argue, but I'm already moving toward the door. My hand hovers over the handle as I reach for the magic woven into this house's foundation, calling up wards I haven't used since Irida was a toddler prone to midnight wandering.
Golden fire flows from my fingers into the door frame, sealing the wood with magic that will hold against anything short of another xaphan's power. The lock engages with a soft click that sounds like a death knell in the quiet room.
"Let me out!" Heidi's voice rises to something close to panic as she realizes what I've done. Her fists pound against the door, the sound muffled by the ward's dampening effect. "You can't keep me here!"
And now the screaming has begun.
What she doesn't understand is that I can keep her here. I will. At least until I figure out what the hell the gods want from this impossible situation.
"Thera," I call as I descend the stairs, knowing my voice will carry through the house's acoustics to wherever the cook has stationed herself. "Post one of the guards on the second floor. The... guest... is not to leave her room."
"Understood." Thera's response comes from the direction of the kitchen, professionally neutral despite whatever questions she must have about my sudden acquisition of a prisoner. She's been with my household long enough to know when not to ask for explanations.
The familiar scent of smoke and cedar fills my lungs as I make my way through the hall toward Irida's room. My daughter's quarters sit in the house's safest section, surrounded by wards and protective enchantments that would make a temple jealous. Nothing gets to her without going through me first.
Which is exactly how I prefer it.
I ease her door open, moving with the careful quiet I've perfected over six years of late-night returns from Vestige. The amber lighting dims automatically as I enter, responding to my presence with magic keyed to recognize when stealth is required.
Irida lies curled in her carved wooden bed, one small hand clutching the stuffed fire-likar I commissioned from a Nashai craftsman for her fourth birthday.
Her dark curls spill across the pillow like spilled ink, and her tiny wings are folded neatly against her back even in sleep.
The sight of her—safe, warm, completely trusting in my ability to protect her—settles something restless in my chest.
This is why I do everything I do. Why I built Vestige into an empire, why I maintain carefully balanced alliances with creatures that could destroy New Solas if the mood struck them, why I carry weapons even in my own home.
All of it serves one purpose: keeping my daughter safe in a world that would devour her innocence without a second thought.
Her eyes flutter open as I approach the bed, molten gold brightening as she recognizes my familiar silhouette in the dim light.
"Dad?" Her voice carries the sleepy confusion of a child woken from peaceful dreams. "You're home."
"I'm home, little flame." I perch carefully on the edge of her bed, mindful of my weight on the delicate frame. "Go back to sleep."
Instead of obeying, she pushes herself upright and reaches for me with both arms extended. The universal gesture of a child who wants to be held, as irresistible now as it was when she was barely walking.
I gather her against my chest, her small body fitting perfectly in the space between my arms. She's warm the way all xaphan children are warm, her natural heat complementing mine until we're wrapped in our own private sanctuary of comfort.
"Did you have meetings tonight?" she asks, her voice muffled against my shirt.
"Some meetings, yes." I smooth her curls back from her face, marveling as I always do at how something so perfect came from the wreckage of my previous life. "Nothing for you to worry about."
"I'm not worried." She pulls back enough to look at me with eyes that mirror my own, serious beyond her years despite the childish roundness of her face. "You always come home."
The simple faith in her voice hits harder than any blade.
She has no idea how many enemies circle our family like predators, how many nights I've returned with blood under my fingernails and death clinging to my clothes.
To her, I'm simply her dad—the one who makes her favorite breakfast, reads bedtime stories, and ensures her world remains bright enough to chase away any shadows.
"Will you stay for a little while?" she asks, settling back against my chest with the easy presumption of a child who has never been denied anything she truly wanted. "Please? I had the flying dream again."
"The one where you're racing the Black Pitters?" I know all her dreams by now, catalogued and categorized like everything else important in my life.
"Mmm." She nods against my shirt, already growing drowsy again. "But this time I was faster. I flew all the way to the mountain peaks where the snow never melts."
"That's very fast indeed." I shift to lie beside her on the narrow bed, my wing curving around us both like a living blanket. The position is awkward given my size, but comfort has never been the point of these moments.
"Dad?" Her voice grows smaller, more tentative. "Will you make sparkles? The pretty ones that dance?"
How can I refuse her anything when she asks like that?
The truth is, I never can tell Irida no. This little girl owns me.
I extend my free hand palm-up, calling fire magic with the gentle control I reserve only for these quiet moments. Golden flames bloom above my fingers, no larger than flower petals but bright enough to cast dancing shadows across the star sigils painted on her ceiling.
Irida makes a soft sound of delight as I encourage the flames to spiral upward, twisting around each other in patterns that shift and change with each heartbeat.
The magic responds to my will like an extension of my own body, creating shapes that would be impossible with mundane fire—thaliverns with wings of pure light, tiny dragons that chase their own tails, flowers that bloom and fade in endless cycles.
"They're beautiful," she whispers, her eyes tracking the dancing lights with the focused attention children reserve for things that truly capture their imagination. "Tell me the story about the first fire?"
The request is familiar, part of our established bedtime ritual whenever I'm home early enough to indulge her. I've told this particular tale hundreds of times, but she never grows tired of hearing it.
"Long ago," I begin, my voice dropping to the storyteller's cadence that sends her deeper into drowsy contentment, "before there were xaphan or humans or any of the peoples who walk the earth now, there was only darkness and cold stone."
The flames above my palm shift to illustrate the story, forming a perfect sphere of black that gradually gives way to tiny points of light.
"But Solis the Sun-Father grew lonely in his realm of eternal light, and so he reached down to touch the cold stone with one finger.
" A single golden flame breaks away from the others, descending slowly toward an imaginary surface.
"Where he touched, fire was born—not the consuming fire that destroys, but the gentle fire that gives life and warmth. "
Irida's breathing has grown deep and even against my chest, but I continue the story anyway. These moments are as much for me as they are for her, a reminder of what matters beyond the endless complications of running an empire built on violence and desire.
"The first fire was lonely, just as Solis had been, so it called out to its father for companions.
" More flames join the dance above us, spinning in complex patterns that cast our shadows long across the walls.
"And Solis, who loved his child, breathed life into the fire until it became the first xaphan. "
Her small hand curls against my shirt, completely relaxed now in the way only children can achieve. Trust absolute and unquestioned, faith that nothing in her world will change while she sleeps safely in her father's arms.
If only that were true.
The flames continue their dance above us as I hold her, providing just enough light to see the peaceful expression on her sleeping face.
Tomorrow will bring new complications—the Praexa delegation, whatever demands the soul bond will make, the impossible human woman currently locked in my guest room.
But for now, there is only this: my daughter's steady breathing, the familiar warmth of home, and the dancing lights that push back the darkness.
Exactly as it should be.