Stella's birthday started like a mission and turned into a small festival. Reika had a clipboard, which meant the event was officially serious. Rose filled the penthouse with blue roses that looked like quiet. Rachel walked around with a tiny lantern set to "safe," purifying surfaces that didn't know they needed it. Seraphina used a fingertip of ice to chill glasses from the inside because apparently water obeys her moods now. Cecilia inspected the table settings like an Empress doing a surprise audit and then declared them "acceptable," which is palace-speak for perfect.
I did what fathers do best: moved furniture, carried boxes, and tried not to cry when I looked at the photo wall we'd built—Stella from eleven to twelve to almost thirteen, taller in each frame, grin steady, eyes brighter.
"Master, confirm cake altitude," Reika said, deadpan, holding a level up to the bottom tier of a cake that could legally vote in three provinces.
"We aren't landing a shuttle," I said.
