redith.
Xamira sat cross-legged on the thick carpeted floor, her little notebook sprawled open, her brows furrowed in a way that was far too serious for a seven-year-old.
Her tongue poked from the corner of her mouth as she scribbled out numbers with the short end of a graphite pencil.
I lay beside her on my stomach, chin resting in my palm, watching the way she chewed her lower lip like it was her nesis.
It made smile, although quietly.
The room slled faintly of lavender and the buttery scent of the scones one of the maids had brought earlier. But Xamira hadn’t touched hers yet.
"Are you sure this is how you carry the number?" she asked suddenly, holding up the page like it was a declaration of war.
I reached for it. "Let see."
She scooted closer and nudged the page toward . Her handwriting was small but neat, slanted slightly to the right, as though even the letters were in a hurry to prove themselves.
I pointed to the third equation. "You’re close, but the three needs to go up here—see? Carry it above the tens column, not the ones."
She blinked at , absorbing the correction. Then she nodded solemnly and picked up her pencil again.
"Okay, okay. I get it now."
She was brilliant—bright, curious, too emotionally aware for her age. But I couldn’t ignore the heavy silence that ca with hoschooling.
I glanced toward the high-arched window of the sitting room. The sun was high and warm outside.
Sowhere out there, children her age were running around schoolyards, braiding each other’s hair, fighting over lunch snacks, and giggling over jokes that didn’t make any sense.
And here Xamira was, solving multiplication problems beside a woman who wasn’t even her mother.
It wasn’t fair.
But I didn’t bla Draven entirely. His thods were strict, yes, but they were grounded in caution. In protection.
He wanted to shield her from danger, from judgnt, from being used as a pawn in political gas she didn’t understand.
But still... I wondered if, when war finally broke out, Duskmoor’s council would even allow him to take her away.
Would they see her as leverage? Would they care that she was just a child?
"I’m done!" Xamira announced, dragging back from my thoughts.
I blinked and looked down at the page. "Let’s check it."
She scooted beside again, her head resting lightly against my arm. I took the pencil from her hand and ran through the answers with her, nodding as I marked ticks beside each one.
"Well done," I murmured. "You got them all right this ti."
She bead. "You’re a good teacher, my lady."
I laughed softly. "Oh no, I think you’re the good student."
Xamira kicked her legs in excitent and clutched her notebook to her chest. "Do you know how to draw?"
That made pause. I stared at her little face, full of expectation.
"Draw?" I scoffed. "I can barely sketch a stick man without turning him into a bent twig."
She giggled. "That’s horrible!"
I raised an eyebrow. "I’m aware."
"Want to teach you?" she offered, all puffed-up pride and the kind of generosity only a child could afford.
I pretended to consider it seriously. "Hmm... if you can teach to paint without laughing at , I might just take the deal."
She put on a mock-serious face. "I never laugh at my students."
"Oh, so now you’re the teacher?"
She nodded proudly. "Mm-hmm. Teacher Xamira. That’s ."
I grinned at her. "Then, Teacher Xamira, I will be waiting for my first painting lesson."
"Tomorrow," she declared, already flipping her notebook closed like a professional artist. "You will be my new student."
"Deal."
We exchanged a pinky swear—her little finger wrapped tightly around mine—a silent agreent, binding and honest.
After we checked the final answer and Xamira had drawn a proud smiley face at the bottom of the page, I suggested what I knew her little legs were itching for.
"Co on," I said, rising from the plush rug. "Let’s go stretch these muscles. A short walk around the garden should do the trick."
Xamira’s eyes sparkled. "Yes, please!"
She slipped her hand into mine without hesitation, her fingers warm and small, her grip trustingly tight.
I glanced at Deidra and Kira, who were already standing by the door like silent shadows.
They both bowed slightly and followed behind as I led Xamira out of the sitting room, through the quiet halls, and out into the open air.
The garden was calm this ti of day—sunlight dappling through tree leaves, a warm breeze sweeping through the trimd hedges.
We strolled slowly across the lawn, our footsteps light on the grass. Xamira swung our joined hands softly, humming sothing under her breath—probably a song she made up on the spot.
It wasn’t long before we reached the old iron bench nestled under the arbour. The vines above it were beginning to sprout tiny buds. We sat.
Silence settled over us—not awkward, but peaceful. The kind of silence you don’t want to disturb because it says everything words can’t.
Then, I turned to her, just for a second. She was sitting beside , her short legs dangling, a faint smile on her face as she took in the quiet world around her.
But what caught wasn’t the smile—it was her eyes. Bright green. Vivid. Sharp and soft at once.
They made sothing inside my chest skip a beat.
Her eyes... they felt familiar. Uncomfortably familiar.
Had I seen them before?
I couldn’t place it. Maybe I was imagining things.
I’d t many people over the years—but no one ca to mind with eyes like hers.
Still, the sensation clawed gently at my thoughts.
I shook my head and forced a breath through my nose. "You’re being ridiculous," I muttered under my breath, barely audible.
Xamira suddenly pointed and gasped. "Look!"
A butterfly flitted lazily above the roses, its golden wings catching the sunlight like slivers of glass.
Xamira leapt up, laughing, and ran after it without waiting for permission.
Her white sandals danced across the lawn, chasing the glimring wings like she had all the ti in the world.
I smiled, chuckling softly. "Kira, Deidra," I called without looking. "Go with her, please."
"Yes, my lady," both replied in unison, quickly trailing after the excited little girl.
I remained seated, letting the quiet settle around again. Until—
"Why are you trying to be a mother to that thing?"
Valmora’s voice lanced through my mind like a blade—sharp, cold, unwelco.
I frowned. My jaw tightened instantly. "She’s not a thing, Valmora. She’s an innocent little girl. A human girl."
"Really?" Her tone curled with disdain. "You really believe that?"
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