Stupid daughter

The teleportation circle flared around Lara's feet in a blaze of dull gold and tired anger.

By the time she landed inside Veylira's warded gates, the sky had faded to a deep violet haze.

Stars blinked above the estate like watching eyes, and the air carried that strange, cool stillness only late night could manage half-watching, half-asleep.

Lara didn't care what time it was.

She stormed up the stone path, through the arched doors carved with flame motifs, and didn't bother knocking.

Her boots echoed down the front hallway as she passed two sleepy guards who knew better than to question her when her shoulders were squared like that.

The living room lights were still on.

Of course they were.

Her mother was half-demon, not half-dead. Sleep was something Veylira allowed to happen when convenient.

The door to the parlor was open just enough for Lara to see the warm glow of amber lanterns spilling across the carpet. The scent of citrus wine and slow-roasted cinnamon lingered in the air.

She stepped through.

And paused.

Veylira was on the couch.

Leaning, of all things, against Raveth—one arm loosely around her waist, their legs half tangled. Raveth looked oddly at peace, her hair down, head tilted into her wife's shoulder like she'd stopped holding herself in a soldier's knot for the first time all day.

It should've been a sweet moment.

Lara grimaced.

"Sorry," she said flatly. "Didn't mean to interrupt your… married bliss."

Veylira raised one brow. "You sound like a wet cat."

"I feel like one."

Raveth sat up with a slight smirk. "Should I get towels or wine?"

"Wine."

Lara was already walking toward the cabinet.

She poured herself a glass—generous, bordering on criminal—and collapsed into the opposite chair.

She kicked off her boots and let her head tip back for a second, eyes closed. The first sip burned on its way down. Good. She welcomed the heat.

Veylira didn't move.

Raveth kissed her cheek, rose with a nod, and left without a word.

The silence lingered for a breath.

Then Veylira said, quietly:"What is the problem?"

Lara opened one eye. "Do I need to have just one?"

Veylira didn't answer.

She never did, when the question was meant as a shield.

So Lara sighed. Drank. Stared into the fire crackling in the hearth like it might offer her something steadier than the twisting mess inside her chest.

Then—

"Dinner happened," she muttered.

"Mm."

"My co-parent's getting married."

"Ah."

There was something about the way Veylira answered. Not surprised. Not shocked. Just… waiting.

Lara exhaled again, longer this time. She ran a hand through her red-streaked hair, fingers catching in damp curls.

"She didn't tell me. Her mother announced it like it was some kind of event detail. 'Oh, by the way, we'll also be celebrating my daughter's arranged marriage.' In front of nobles. In front of me."

"And you are upset."

"I'm furious."

Veylira leaned back slowly. "Because she didn't tell you."

"Because—"

Lara stopped.

The wine in her hand caught the firelight, swirling deep red and gold.

She searched for words.

"I don't know. Because it's all so… sudden. Public. Because I'm supposed to sit next to her and smile while she picks out dresses and political husbands and acts like this doesn't change everything."

Veylira nodded once. "Does it?"

Lara stared at her. "Yes. Of course it does."

Silence.

Then Veylira asked, voice quiet and far too calm:

"Lara. Are you in a relationship with Sarisa?"

Lara blinked. "No. You know we're not."

"You're not lovers. Not married. Not sworn."

"No."

"You co-parent."

"Yes."

"You share a daughter."

"Yes."

"And she's becoming a queen."

Lara ground her teeth. "Yes."

Veylira folded her hands.

"Then tell me, daughter: what, exactly, have you lost?"

Lara recoiled like she'd been slapped.

"I—what?"

"What has she taken from you?" Veylira's voice didn't rise. It didn't have to. "You aren't bound to her. You're not in love with her."

"I never said that—"

"You've never said anything," Veylira said simply. "Not in five years. Not to her. Not to me. You've guarded every word, every thought like it's classified military intelligence."

"I didn't need to say anything."

"Then why are you here?" Veylira asked softly. "At my castle. With wine. At midnight."

Lara's mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Veylira stood and crossed the room, one hand reaching to brush a strand of hair behind Lara's horn, the same way she had when Lara was a child and wouldn't sleep without firelight.

"Listen to me," she said gently. "You're angry. That's fine. You feel something. That's human."

Demon. Lara wanted to correct. But didn't.

"But don't confuse possession with partnership," Veylira continued. "You and Sarisa built something sacred—for your daughter. That bond is real. But it isn't romantic. It was never formalized. You agreed on that."

"I know."

"Then unless you planned to change that, you cannot be surprised she didn't build her future around you."

Lara said nothing.

Veylira's hand dropped away.

"She's allowed to move forward," she said, "if you're not stepping beside her."

The words settled like stones in Lara's chest.

"She's going to marry some prince with perfect posture and wine metaphors," Lara muttered.

"Yes," Veylira said. "Because he wants her. Publicly. And for now, she thinks she must accept."

Lara looked down into her glass.

"She could've said something."

"She waited for five years."

The fire popped.

Veylira returned to her seat.

"You didn't lose a wife tonight, Lara," she said softly. "You lost a possibility."

Lara tensed in her seat, shoulders drawn tight, wine glass halfway to her lips. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Veylira leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, golden eyes sharp beneath the gentle tone. "It means you're jealous."

Lara scoffed. "I'm not—"

"Don't lie to me. I've known you since your first tantrum and your first fire spell."

"It's not jealousy," Lara said firmly, too quickly. "It's—It's concern. For Aliyah. For the palace. For—"

"For your own pride?" Veylira interrupted, voice calm but unyielding. "For the space beside her that was empty until someone else sat in it?"

Lara looked away.

Veylira didn't.

"Tell me this," she said. "Do you want another person beside her? In her bed? Do you want someone else to hold her in the morning? To brush her hair back when she's tired?"

Lara's jaw clenched.

"Do you want her to laugh like that with him? To share secrets with him? To have children with him?"

Lara stiffened.

"Do you want someone else calling her 'my love'? Kissing the corner of her mouth? Whispering into her skin at midnight?"

"Mother—"

"Do you want Aliyah calling him Papa one day?"

The words landed like a slap.

Lara didn't answer.

Veylira leaned back slowly, her voice softer now, but no less pointed.

"Because if you can live with all that… then this is nothing more than pride."

Lara stared at the floor, heart thundering, blood hot in her veins.

And still, no answer came.

Veylira smiled faintly, just once.

"Stupid daughter of mine you are."