sharp ping! slices through the quiet of our impromptu
campsite. Shaq’Rai’s voice, usually a low rumble in the back of
my mind, now carries a note of surprise. "Congratulations! The
Goddess, Ishtar, has granted you a +0.5 boost to Charisma."
My eyes flick to the notification shimmering at the edge of my
vision: Half-Assed Prayer – Charisma +0.5. A wry smile
touches my lips as I sit by the still waters of the enchanted lake.
"Seems I got her attention."
Shaq’Rai’s mental presence shifts, a flicker of concern. "You
sure you want to pick a fight with a goddess? Especially one that is
your patron?" Her warning echoes in my thoughts, laced with the
caution of someone who’s seen the divine up close.
"It'll be alright," I reply, the words more for myself
than her.
“Will it, though? Ishtar, the Radiant One, the weaver of
destinies… she’s not known for her sense of humor when it comes
to her followers straying.”
“A little rebellion here and there keeps things interesting,
doesn't it?”
“Your taking this whole thing on the wrong way.”
“Don’t over think it. This ‘chosen one’ gig was getting
stale. It’s good to spice things up, you know, be spontaneous.”
Shaq’Rai sighs. “If you say so.”
I shift on the damp earth, the cool air carrying the faint, sweet
scent of the enchanted lake. The water lies before us, unnervingly
still, reflecting the dying light of the twin moons beginning to peek
through the canopy. I glance down at my regular farm clothes –
sturdy but offering little in the way of protection. Soon, I need to
get those leatherworking skills up. My left arm feels heavier than
usual beneath the smooth, cool metal of the iron vambrace that
stretches from my wrist to my elbow, Ishtar’s symbol subtly etched
into its surface. It’s more than just an amulet; it’s a constant,
tangible link.
Shaq’Rai’s unease persists. "That prayer… it wasn't
exactly reverent."
I shrug, though she can’t see the gesture. "Hey, I got
results, didn't I?" The half-point to Charisma is negligible,
practically a divine eye-roll, but the acknowledgment…
that’s what matters. It means she’s watching. And maybe, just
maybe, she’s a little annoyed. Which suits me just fine.
This morning… this morning felt wrong. A raw edge vibrated in
the air, thick as the mist clinging to the enchanted lake. My own
voice, sharp and raised in a way I hadn’t heard in years, still
echoed in the quiet corners of my memory. It had been directed at
Ember, and the recollection tightened something in my chest.
Breakfast had been a strained affair. The usual easy banter was
absent, replaced by a heavy silence punctuated only by the clinking
of utensils. Ember, her normally vibrant crimson eyes shadowed,
picked at her food. Something was off with her, a subtle shift in her
demeanor that went beyond typical teenage angst. I’d navigated
those treacherous waters before, with my human daughter, but a demon
teenager? That was uncharted territory. Hormones were likely
involved, but with Ember, everything felt amplified, potentially
volatile.
The awkward silence that stretched after breakfast felt equally
discordant. Now, sitting by the lake, the gentle lapping of the water
against the shore a stark contrast to the turmoil of the morning, a
prickle of guilt nags at me. Had I overreacted? The memory of the
harsh words I’d spoken plays back in my mind, each syllable
amplified.
So, in a clumsy attempt at reconciliation – the way a guilty
father might – I’d declared a day off. A reprieve from the
endless cycle of resource gathering. Not just for Ember, but for all
of us. A silent acknowledgment that something was amiss, that the
usual rhythm of our lives had been disrupted.
The enchanted lake, usually a source of calm, now seems to reflect
my unease. Its surface shimmers, but the depths feel darker, more
mysterious than usual. Even Shaq’Rai has been quiet, her usual dry
commentary absent. The air hums with a subtle energy, a feeling that
something is about to shift, a prelude to a change we can’t yet
foresee. This unexpected day off, meant to ease the tension, now
feels less like a break and more like the quiet before a storm.
Lunch had passed in a similar, muted fashion as breakfast. For
dinner, I decided to try and bridge the awkwardness with a small
offering for Ember. Necessity, as always, spurred invention. Using
the damp clay from the lake’s edge, I’d painstakingly shaped
several shallow pans. Then, remembering an old Earth trick, I’d
layered the outsides with a poultice of fibrous roots and specific
herbs, hoping to create a protective barrier against the open
campfire’s heat. It was a far cry from proper cookware, but
hopefully, it would prevent a smoky disaster. What I wouldn’t give
for a proper furnace, or even a simple oven. The thought of a
steaming pizza drifted through my mind, a phantom taste of a life so
far removed from this one.
Instead, the menu was fruit pot pie. Not exactly a hearty main
course, but with the wild berries we’d foraged and a rough,
sweetened dough, it was the closest thing I could manage to ice cream
– Every girl’s weakness.
The quiet persisted through dinner. The flames of the campfire
danced, casting flickering shadows on the surrounding trees, but
Ember remained largely silent, her gaze often fixed on the crackling
fire. But… she ate. Not just a polite nibble, but two entire clay
pans filled with the fruit pie. That was progress, I told myself.
Equivalent to two tubs of ice cream in my old world, I imagined. One
small step away from whatever cloud had settled over her.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
As the last embers glowed orange, painting the underside of the
leaves with a warm light, the silence stretched, thick with unspoken
thoughts. I watched Ember, her silhouette framed by the firelight, a
complicated mix of human and demon. This new phase, this teenage
metamorphosis, felt like navigating a shifting landscape. I missed
the easy camaraderie we usually shared. This quiet felt heavy, laden
with something I couldn’t quite grasp. Tomorrow, I decided, things
would be different. I had to find a way to break through this.
The following day dawned with the familiar chirping of unseen
forest creatures, a stark contrast to the lingering tension from
yesterday. After the usual dawn exercises – a series of stretches
and combat forms that left my muscles pleasantly tight – and a
breakfast of morning glory blossoms sautéed with foraged mushrooms,
I turned my attention to organization. Now that the Container
Creation skill had finally unlocked, the chaotic piles of resources
scattered around our camp felt… wrong.
"Shaq'Rai," I murmured, focusing my thoughts inward,
"let's see how this external inventory works."
A mental interface shimmered into view as I concentrated on the
idea of a storage box. Simple wooden storage boxes were the only
option available for now, the crafting recipe straightforward enough.
But the control over size was a welcome feature. The smallest I could
manifest was a compact two-by-two, offering two inventory slots. Like
my personal bag, these slots allowed for infinite stacking, a handy
bit of game logic that kept things manageable. Unlike my bag,
however, there were no separate tabs, a sensible limitation for a
physical object.
The largest box I could envision was a substantial
twenty-by-twenty, providing twenty slots. Interestingly, there seemed
to be no weight limit associated with them. Makes sense; a box isn't
burdened by muscles and joints. A foolish idea then sparked in my
mind. Could I place one of these larger containers within my
personal inventory?
I mentally conjured the twenty-by-twenty box and attempted to slot
it into my internal space. The result was immediate and comical. A
sudden, overwhelming sense of imbalance rocked me. My rear end lifted
abruptly, and I pitched backward, the world spinning in a dizzying
arc. I landed with a grunt, the breath knocked from my lungs.
Shaq’Rai’s mental chuckle echoed in my thoughts. "Perhaps
some things are best kept separate, Grant."
Dusting myself off, I had to agree. Lesson learned. External
storage was indeed external. Now, to actually start
organizing the scattered piles of ore and lumber… one less chaotic
corner of this strange world.
The mundane task of inventory control
felt like a fragile shield against the heavy silence that had settled
over our small camp. We sorted through piles of gathered wood and
shimmering ore, assessing our needs, our surplus. But the quiet was
oppressive. Ember hadn’t met my gaze since the strained breakfast,
her movements stiff and deliberate.
I decided to break the ice, the silence feeling heavier than any
of the iron ingots we were organizing. “So… you wanna talk about
that dream of yours?”
Ember’s reaction was immediate and dismissive. Her crimson eyes
rolled upwards, and she let out a sharp huff. Her cheeks puffed out
slightly, a familiar, almost endearing demon pout. “No.”
“I didn’t mean to go off on you like that, honey,” I sighed,
the words carrying a genuine regret. “But… it’s a father’s
duty to… well, to guide his children.”
She leveled a glare at me, sharp enough to cut stone.
Ignoring the daggers in her gaze, I pressed on, falling into that
familiar paternal mode. "You know," I began, trying for a
lighter tone, "some people actually like their space," I
added, the words laced with what I hoped was gentle humor, though I
knew I was probably failing miserably. I was aware of my tendencies –
the hovering, the occasional clinginess. I understood how it might
feel like an invasion of her boundaries. But my protective instincts,
especially with her heritage, often overrode my attempts at a more
hands-off approach. It wasn't like she wasn't constantly demanding
hugs from me.
"Yeah, well," Ember finally retorted, her voice tight,
"some people also don’t trust their half-demon kids." A
scowl twisted her features. "Hello? Ever heard of patricide?
Basic demon 101."
The words hit like a physical blow. Patricide. The
casualness with which she spoke the word sent a chill down my spine.
A mental sigh echoed from Shaq’Rai.
Trying to steer away from the sharp edge of Ember’s last words,
I shifted the focus back to the practicalities of our survival.
"Listen." I ran a hand through my hair, the gesture more to
buy myself a moment than anything else. "After breakfast
tomorrow, how about we go and grab more ore for the schematics I'm
working on?"
Riveting stuff, Shaq’Rai’s dry mental tone echoed.
"Mr. Spuds found some fresh veins—of silver and iron when
we found you the other day," I continued, hoping to sound
matter-of-fact.
Ember’s movements stilled. Her hands, which had been
meticulously sorting a pile of luminous moss, stopped their counting.
Her gaze snapped to mine, a flicker of something unreadable in her
crimson eyes. “Wait… you found me?”
"Yeah," I replied, meeting her gaze. "I ran back to
get the others. We set up an assembly line, the critters and I, and
dug you out. One boulder at a time." The memory of the frantic
effort, the sheer relief when we finally reached her, surfaced
briefly.
A faint blush rose on Ember’s cheeks, a delicate warmth against
her pale skin. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “What…
whatever, I guess.”
Typical teenager, Shaq’Rai sighed mentally, a familiar
blend of exasperation and amusement.
I chuckled softly and pressed on, seizing the small opening. “We
can spend some time together. The cavern's deep, so I’ll be there
with you this time. I’ll do the mining; you can just point out the
ore veins for me."
Ember stretched, a deliberately exaggerated movement. "More
rocks. Wow. Living the dream. Dad," she added the last
word almost as an afterthought, but the subtle emphasis didn't escape
me.
I grunted, choosing to ignore the blatant sarcasm. Too tired, and
honestly, too relieved by her slight shift, to fight it. "Yeah,
yeah, kiddo. This time I won’t wander off. Got to keep an eye on
you."
A beat of silence hung in the air. Then, almost imperceptibly, a
small smile touched the corner of her lips. “Okay.”
She turned to resume sorting the moss, then stopped, her back
still to me. “Daddy.” The quiet address hung in the air, carrying
a weight of unspoken emotion.