The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Which, for a house containing a small, ex-demonic royalty with a penchant for chaos and unsolicited fire, was about as comforting as a sword left unsheathed on a toddler's play mat.
Elias stirred his tea for the third time without sipping it.
His spoon clinked gently against the chipped ceramic mug, a small sound in the otherwise hushed room. Outside, the afternoon sun poured through the windows, warm and golden. Birds chirped. Children laughed in the distance.
Inside, Elias was trying very hard not to panic.
"Okay," he said to himself, sipping his now lukewarm tea. "Let's make a list."
He reached for the journal he used whenever life felt like it was spiraling out of control. It was already half-filled with bullet points like:
Remember Rhea's favorite bread.
Don't let her talk to frogs. (Still not sure how that ended up with the mayor's pond glowing for a week.)
Remind her she cannot 'telekinetically' undress bullies, even if they started it.
Stop calling her 'Your Demonic-ness' in public. People are starting to believe it.
He flipped to a fresh page and wrote at the top, underlined:
Elias Thorne: Are You a Father… or a Fool?
"Alright," he murmured, tapping his quill.
He wrote:
Rhea saved a child from a fire.
She burned a classroom ceiling three days later.
She's banned from school for a week.
She made the teacher cry.
She also made muffins this morning and gave one to Old Lady Brenna.
That last one gave him pause.
He added:
It had poisonberry jam.
But also a heart drawn in syrup.
He sighed. "That's... sweet. And also slightly terrifying."
The stairs creaked above him. His head shot up.
Speak of the devil—literally.
Rhea emerged from her room, arms folded, hair frizzy from static magic, a glower plastered on her face like it had been painted on with grumpy ink.
She didn't look like a monster.
She looked like a kid who had just learned recess was cancelled.
"You're sulking," Elias said, setting the tea down.
"I am brooding," she corrected, making a show of dramatically sitting on the armrest beside him and draping a blanket around her shoulders like a cape. "Brooding is more dignified."
"You've been reading those gothic novels again, haven't you?"
"They speak to me."
"Of course they do."
She pulled the blanket tighter and muttered, "It's not fair."
"Life rarely is. But in this case... yeah, the scorch mark on the ceiling sort of sealed it."
"I didn't mean to explode the ceiling! It was a surge. My mana built up too fast."
"You also telekinetically flung your wand through the window."
"I was aiming for the blackboard!"
"You hit a goat."
"The goat was in the way."
Elias pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why was there a goat in the classroom, Rhea?"
"Why isn't there a goat in every classroom?" she challenged.
"Rhea."
"Fine! It was my fault. But not all my fault."
There it was again—that twinge in her voice. That coiled mix of guilt and confusion and something else... fear, maybe. Not of punishment.
Of herself.
Elias leaned back on the couch, watching her as she picked at the hem of the blanket.
"What if you're not raising a girl?" Tyrin's voice echoed in his head from last night. "What if you're feeding a flame you don't know how to control?"
Elias had laughed then. But it hadn't felt real.
What if Tyrin was right?
What if all the late-night cuddles and storytime and gently worded life lessons were just... window dressing for something inevitable?
What if the world saw it clearer than he did?
Was she truly a child?
Or a spark from a furnace that once burned nations?
"Rhea," he said gently, and she looked up.
"Do you remember the dream you had last week? About the throne?"
She froze.
Her lip trembled.
"You said," he continued slowly, "that you didn't want to burn it again."
"I don't," she whispered. "But sometimes... sometimes I feel it. Inside. Like a scream. Or a song that's too loud and too bright. It wants out."
Elias swallowed. "And when it comes out...?"
"I don't want to hurt anyone. I just... don't always know how to stop it."
She sniffled. "Am I broken?"
He reached over and pulled her into his arms. Her small frame stiffened at first, then melted against him.
"No," he said into her hair. "You're not broken. You're just still building yourself. The edges are rough."
"Edges don't burn towns."
"Some do. But they also light lanterns. And warm homes."
She was quiet a long time.
Then: "You're not scared of me?"
"I'm scared for you. Big difference."
She pulled back to look up at him. "What if I'm a monster?"
He cupped her face gently. "Monsters don't cry over goats."
"That goat deserved it."
"Monsters don't feel bad when they break things."
"Not even the ceiling?"
"Not even the ceiling."
Rhea sighed, burying her face in his chest again. "You always make things make sense."
"I wing it most of the time."
"Still counts."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Elias stood, setting Rhea gently down.
At the door stood Miss Hallen, the community magic tutor, holding a small box and wearing a cautious smile.
"I... brought this," she said. "A warded training orb. For practice at home."
Elias blinked. "You're not here to... banish us?"
Miss Hallen laughed nervously. "I've... spoken to the parents. And the kids. And I realized something."
"Oh?"
"Rhea's not the first kid to have a magic surge. Just the first to turn a chalkboard into charcoal in under three seconds."
Rhea peeked from behind Elias.
"I'm sorry, Miss Hallen," she said.
The woman looked at her.
"Just don't set my cat on fire," she said.
"No promises," Rhea muttered, then blinked. "I mean—yes! Promise. Definitely promise."
Miss Hallen handed over the orb. "Keep practicing. Come back next week. And maybe no goats this time."
As she left, Rhea stared at the orb, then at Elias.
"Maybe I'm not a monster."
"You're a tiny arsonist at worst."
"That's comforting."
They spent the rest of the afternoon in the backyard, tossing the orb gently back and forth while it pulsed with light. Each time it glowed too bright, Rhea paused, breathed, calmed herself.
Sometimes she didn't succeed.
But sometimes, she did.
That night, as Elias tucked her into bed, she asked quietly, "Did you make your list?"
He blinked. "My what?"
"You always make a list when you're worried."
"...I might've."
"Was I on it?"
He smiled. "You were the whole thing."
She pulled the blankets up to her chin. "You're not giving up on me, right?"
"Never."
She nodded, satisfied.
"Good. Because if I ever go full dark empress again, I want you as my first knight."
He chuckled. "Deal. But only if I get a cool helmet."
"Only if it has horns."
"Obviously."
As she drifted to sleep, Elias sat nearby, watching the soft rise and fall of her breathing.
He didn't have all the answers.
He didn't know if this path would end in peace... or ash.
But right now, in this moment, she was just a child.
And he would walk beside her, no matter what came.
Even if the world called her a monster.
He would raise her not as a weapon—but as someone worth saving.
Even if she occasionally launched goats out of windows.
To be continued...