I Raised the Demon Queen (Now She Won't Leave Me Alone)

It started with cinnamon toast and ended in flames.

Not literal flames this time—though given Rhea's history, that was always on the table—but the metaphorical kind. The kind that lit up in her eyes, flickered through her memories, and scorched a little hole right through my heart.

But first: breakfast.

"Do you want toast or porridge?" I asked, juggling two steaming pots.

Rhea was sitting at the kitchen table with her cheeks puffed and her arms crossed. Her tail swished across the seat like an agitated cat.

"I want toast... but crispy," she declared.

"That sounds suspiciously like burnt," I said.

"I am a connoisseur of char."

"That's not a real thing."

"It is now," she said imperiously, jabbing a spoon at me like it was a royal decree.

I sighed. "Fine. One connoisseur-style toast, coming up."