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ROLFO

I patrol the quieter side streets of the main city square with practiced efficiency, silver eyes scanning every corner and shadow. My boots scuff against the uneven cobblestones as I adjust the weight of my uniform—black leather armor emblazoned with the guard's insignia, heavier in the day's oppressive heat. The red sky casts everything in a perpetual crimson twilight, even at midday.

The market district thins out here, where the respectable shops give way to cramped apartments and questionable establishments. Most citizens know better than to cause trouble on my route. I've cultivated that reputation carefully.

My hand rests casually on the hilt of my sword as I round the corner past a shuttered apothecary. Nothing unusual catches my attention—just the typical street scene of a few merchants packing their unsold wares, a drunk sleeping it off in a doorway, a couple of lunox fighting over scraps.

Until I see her.

At first glance, she's just another bundle of rags in the shadow of an alley tucked between two buildings. Probably another drunk or addict. Maybe a corpse—wouldn't be the first I've found this month. But something about the shape makes me pause mid-stride.

"Demons below," I mutter, moving closer.

It's a woman. Young. Curled on her side, one arm thrust out as though she'd been crawling toward the street. Her dress—little more than a rag—rides up to reveal legs streaked with dirt and scratches. Her other arm cradles a swollen belly.

She's pregnant. Very pregnant.

I crouch beside her, scanning for immediate dangers before focusing on her fully. Deep auburn hair, matted and filthy, plasters against her temples. Her bare feet are bloody and caked with grime. Her breathing comes in ragged, shallow gasps.

"Hey. Can you hear me?"

No response. Not even a flicker of her eyelids. But her chest rises and falls in an uneven rhythm.

I press my fingers to her neck, feeling a thready pulse beneath skin that burns too hot. She's running a dangerous fever. Dehydrated too, from the look of her cracked lips.

Something twists in my chest—an ugly, forgotten feeling I've spent years burying. My sister Mara's face flashes in my mind.

"Not again," I growl.

I look closer at the woman's exposed upper arm. There it is—the mark. A brand of ownership. Some noble's property. A runaway slave, then. And in labor, judging by the wetness beneath her dress.

"You picked a damned spot to collapse, woman," I say, though she can't hear me.

It would be simpler to call for a transport to the public infirmary. Let the healers deal with her. That's protocol. That's what's expected of the city guard.

But the infirmary would report a runaway slave immediately. They'd return her to her owner once the baby was delivered. If she survived at all.

I glance around the empty alleyway. No witnesses.

"Fuck protocol."

Her scent is familiar. Human, but threaded with something else—demon blood clinging faintly in the air. I inhale deeply, my heightened senses picking apart the layers. Fear. Exhaustion. The metallic tang of blood. Beneath it all, the unmistakable sweetness of a half-breed child growing inside her.

She's been claimed, mistreated, likely hunted. Desperate enough to collapse in a back alley rather than risk being seen. Just like Ada had been when Dezoth first found her—wild-eyed, clutching her child, expecting death rather than shelter.

I glance around once more, confirming we're alone before making my decision.

"Come on. Let's get you somewhere safe."

With practiced efficiency, I sheath my sword and slip one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. Her body is featherlight against my chest despite the swell of her belly. Too thin. She's been starving herself to keep the baby fed.

I lift her carefully, adjusting my grip to cradle her properly. The woman doesn't wake, her head lolling against my shoulder, breath hot and rapid against my neck. Her skin burns through the thin fabric of her dress.

"That's a fever that'll kill you if we don't get it down," I mutter, more to myself than to her.

My fingers brush against something tacky on the back of her dress. Blood. Fresh. The labor's already started.

"Shit."

I hesitate only briefly before heading home, instinctively choosing the route with the fewest eyes. Down the service alley behind the taverns, through the abandoned courtyard with the dry fountain, past the crumbling shrine to forgotten gods. The weight in my arms feels oddly right, like something I've been meant to carry.

A distant part of my mind recognizes the dangerous territory I'm entering. Harboring a runaway is punishable by flogging. Harboring a pregnant one carrying noble blood could mean execution. The rational part of me—the part that's kept me alive for decades in the guard—screams to turn back.

I ignore it.

The woman whimpers in my arms as I navigate a particularly narrow passage, her face contorting in pain even through unconsciousness.

"Easy now," I whisper, softening my voice to a gentleness I rarely use. "Almost there."

A group of young demons rounds the corner ahead. Guards off-duty, faces flushed with amerinth. I duck quickly into a shadowed doorway, pressing my back against the cold stone. The pregnant woman shivers against me.

"Hold still," I breathe into her matted hair. "Just a moment longer."

The guards pass, laughing about something crude. None of them glance my way. I count to ten before stepping back into the street.

The rest of the journey passes in tense silence. When I finally reach my home—a modest stone building backed against the outer wall of the city—I shift her weight to unlock the door, slipping inside the darkened interior with practiced stealth.

"Welcome home," I tell her as I kick the door shut behind us, knowing she can't hear me. "It's not much, but it's safe."

Something about this feels inevitable, like the universe correcting an old wrong. I gently lay her on my bed, her small form nearly swallowed by the large frame built for my demon height.

I lay her gently on the guest bed I have, her small form nearly disappearing against the dark sheets. She seems impossibly fragile beneath my hands, like something made of hollow bones and desperate hope. The fever still radiates from her skin as I carefully adjust a pillow beneath her head.

A damp curl clings to her temple. I brush it away with a hesitant fingertip, surprised at the softness of her hair despite its matted condition. Her lips are cracked and dry, skin pulled tight across her cheekbones. Even in sleep, pain etches lines around her eyes.

"You're safe now," I murmur, though I doubt she hears me.

I straighten, glancing around my sparse bedroom. The space wasn't designed for comfort—just function. A bed built for a demon's frame, a trunk for clothes, a weapons rack, and a small table bearing a single lamp. Nothing that would help a human woman in labor.

"Water," I mutter to myself. "She needs water."

In the kitchen, I fill a clay pitcher and grab a cup. My hands feel clumsy suddenly, too big for such delicate work. I've dragged wounded men twice my size from battlefields, but this—this feels more precarious somehow.

When I return, she hasn't moved. I place the water on the bedside table, within reach if she wakes. Her eyelids flutter as though chasing dreams, but remain closed.

I stand there, uncertain what to do next. The logical part of my mind catalogs her condition with clinical precision: dehydration, fever, early stages of labor, exhaustion, malnutrition. Each problem has a solution. Each solution requires help I don't have.

My gaze drops to the slave brand on her upper arm. Some house noble's mark—one I don't immediately recognize. Whoever owned her would want her back. The child too, especially if it carries demon blood.

"No one's taking you," I growl, surprising myself with the ferocity in my voice.

A strange tightness pulls at my chest as I watch her shallow breathing. She's so small beneath the layers of filth and exhaustion. Pregnant and alone in a city that would sell her for coin without a second thought.

I pace to the window, pulling the heavy curtains closed. Then to the door, checking that it's locked. Back to the bedside, adjusting the blanket I've draped over her. My movements feel purposeless but I can't seem to stop.

"What am I doing?" I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

Harboring a runaway slave. Bringing her into my home. Risking everything I've built in the guard. For what? A stranger who reminds me of a sister long dead? A chance to ease an old guilt?

The woman moans softly in her sleep, one hand drifting to her swollen belly. The gesture is protective, instinctive. Even unconscious, she shields her child.

"You're braver than you look," I tell her.

I need to clean her wounds. Check how far along the labor is. Find something to bring down the fever. But the thought of touching her while she's unconscious feels wrong somehow.

I back away, leaving the bedroom door cracked open. In the narrow hallway, I resume my pacing, counting the steps between the bedroom and the front door. Twelve exactly. Close enough to hear if she calls out. Far enough to give her space if she wakes frightened.

My silver eyes adjust easily to the dim light as dusk deepens outside. I listen intently for any change in her breathing, any sign of distress. My body refuses to relax, muscles tense as though preparing for battle.

"She needs a healer," I mutter, knowing it's true and impossible. A healer would report her immediately.

I slide down the wall, sitting on the floor with my back against rough stone, legs stretched out across the hallway. From here, I can see a sliver of the bed through the cracked door. Just enough to make out the rise and fall of the blanket as she breathes.

I don't know why I'm so drawn to protect her—but I am. The certainty settles into my bones like an old, familiar weight. Something about her pulls at instincts I'd thought long buried. And I'm not walking away.

So I better call for help and hope it doesn't go wrong.