Page 1

ESALYN

SIX YEARS EARLIER

T he healer's cool fingers press against my wrist, her touch too gentle to match the harshness of her words.

"Your pulse is still weak. The bleeding hasn't stopped entirely.

" She's a water nymph, I can tell from the faint shimmer that traces her skin when she moves, like sunlight dancing across a stream.

Her eyes, deep as ocean trenches, flick to the bundle nestled beside me on the bed.

"The child thrives while you wither. Interesting how demon blood works, isn't it? "

I say nothing. In Lord Vorrak's household, surviving means knowing when to disappear into silence.

"Two weeks," she continues, packing her herbs and tinctures with practiced efficiency, "and you're barely able to stand. Most would still be bedridden. You have surprising endurance for a human."

Not endurance. Fear. Fear makes the impossible manageable.

Erisen stirs beside me, tiny fingers flexing. In the dim candlelight, his skin appears almost normal—the faint copper tint could pass for a human tan. Only when he opens his eyes do I see the truth of his heritage: those golden irises that gleam too bright, too aware.

"I'll need to report to Lord Vorrak. He's been... patient." The healer's mouth twists as if the word tastes strange. "He wants to know when you'll be able to resume your... duties."

My insides turn to ice. Two weeks. Two weeks of respite while my torn body struggled to knit itself back together after bringing his son into the world.

"Tomorrow, perhaps," she adds, not looking at me. "Or the day after. I'll suggest a few more days of recovery."

But we both know Vorrak won't wait. Not now that he knows his heir survived the birth.

The door closes behind her, and I count her footsteps as they fade down the corridor. I have minutes, perhaps less. My fingers tremble as I reach for Erisen, cradling him to my chest as if I might absorb him back into my body, protecting him from what's coming.

"We can't stay," I whisper against the soft down of his head. "Not one more night."

Moving hurts. Every shift sends daggers of pain through my abdomen, but I force myself up, ignoring the rush of dizziness. The small bag was prepared days ago—hidden beneath the loose floorboard under my bed. Just essentials: a change of clothes, a few stolen coins, dried food that won't spoil.

I wrap Erisen tightly against my chest with a long strip of cloth, crossing it over my shoulders and back, tying it securely at my waist. His weight—so slight, so precious—presses against the raw places inside me, but I welcome the pain. Pain means we're still alive. Pain means we have a chance.

The cloak comes next, heavy enough to shield us from the perpetual chill of Velzaroth's ash-laden air. I pull the hood forward so it shadows my face, then check that Erisen can still breathe comfortably within its folds.

"We're going to be free," I promise him, though my voice shakes. "Far from here. Somewhere he'll never find us."

I ease the door open a crack. The corridor stretches empty, lit only by the occasional sulfur lamp casting yellow pools against the obsidian walls.

Vorrak's estate is built like a fortress—all sharp angles and shadows, designed to trap rather than welcome.

But I've had five years to learn its secrets, to map every servant's passage and forgotten doorway.

Moving silently becomes a meditation. Step, breathe, listen. Step, breathe, listen. The pain fades to background noise as I focus on keeping Erisen quiet, on avoiding the spots where the floor creaks, on timing my movements to coincide with the distant sounds of household activity.

Down the servants' staircase, through the kitchens where the cooks are too busy preparing the evening meal to notice a cloaked figure slipping past, into the storage rooms that connect to the delivery entrance.

Each successful step feels like stealing something precious from Vorrak. Each moment undetected is a victory.

When I finally reach the small side door that opens onto the service yard, I pause. Outside waits either freedom or capture. There's no middle ground.

"Please," I whisper—not to any god or goddess, for they've never answered before—but to whatever force might care for desperate mothers and innocent children.

I pull the door open and step out into the night. The air burns my lungs with its familiar mixture of sulfur and sea salt. Ash falls like snow, dusting my cloak with gray flecks. And there, as promised—a carriage waits, its lamps unlit, the zarryn in harness standing unnaturally still.

"Quickly now."

The healer materializes from the shadows beside the carriage, her form almost liquid in the darkness. Her ocean eyes meet mine, and I see something unexpected—compassion, perhaps. Or solidarity.

"He's in consultation with his trade partners. I told him you need uninterrupted rest tonight." She opens the carriage door. "This buys you hours, not days. Make them count."

The carriage wheels crunch over ash-packed streets, each jolt awakening fresh pain in my body.

Erisen sleeps against me, his face hidden within the folds of my cloak, his steady breathing the only tether keeping me from dissolving into panic.

We wind through Velzaroth's outer district, where the buildings crowd together like rotting teeth, their obsidian facades streaked with sulfur stains and soot.

"This is where we part," the nymph healer says as the carriage slows. Her voice carries no emotion, but her fingers twist together in her lap. "The market district. Busy enough to lose yourself, close enough to the docks for whatever comes next."

I nod, unable to form proper gratitude. Words seem inadequate for what she's risking.

"He'll kill you for this," I manage finally.

The corner of her mouth lifts in a bitter half-smile. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I'll be far from here before he discovers what I've done." She presses something into my palm—a small pouch that clinks with coins. "I've taken my payment from his coffers. Consider this yours as well."

The carriage stops in a narrow side street, and she helps me down, her touch careful around my still-healing body. For a moment, we stand facing each other—two women whose lives intersected briefly in the darkness of Vorrak's household.

"Go," she whispers. "And don't look back."

I clutch Erisen tighter and slip away into the shadows between buildings.

The market district teems with life despite the late hour. The wretched city never truly sleeps—the perpetual red glow from the calderas makes day and night indistinguishable, and desperation keeps commerce flowing. I move with my head down, just another shadow among many, searching for a way out.

An alley offers temporary shelter. I press my back against the cold stone, trying to calm my racing heart while scanning the street beyond.

Merchants hawk wares beneath stained canopies.

Dock workers trudge past with shoulders hunched against the constant drizzle of ash.

Two city watchmen stand at the corner, their eyes tracking anyone who might be carrying something worth taking.

The wind shifts, bringing a rush of sulfuric fumes that burn my throat. Erisen stirs against me, his tiny face scrunching in discomfort. A small whimper escapes his lips.

"Shh," I plead, rocking him instinctively. "Please, little one." My voice cracks with desperation.

His eyes flutter—those golden eyes that mark him as different, as dangerous to us both—and his mouth opens in preparation for a cry that will draw every eye in the market.

I slip my finger into his mouth, letting him suckle for comfort while I scan the street with increasing urgency. We can't stay here. Each second brings us closer to discovery, to Vorrak's men finding us, to being dragged back to that obsidian fortress.

That's when I see it—a merchant wagon loaded with crates and equipment, covered with torn tarps that flap like wounded birds in the acrid breeze.

The driver, a burly man with skin like tanned leather, is engaged in a heated negotiation with a butcher.

Their voices rise above the market's din as they haggle over the price of what looks like tuskram flanks.

"Highway robbery!" the wagon driver shouts, slamming his fist on the butcher's counter. "You think I crawled out of the calderas yesterday?"

The butcher responds with equal fervor, drawing the attention of nearby merchants and patrons.

This is our chance.

I wait until their argument reaches a crescendo, then slip from the alley. My body protests each step, pain flaring through my abdomen like hot pokers. The torn stitches from Erisen's birth pull and sting beneath my clothes, but I force myself forward, one shuffling step after another.

The back of the wagon sits unattended, its contents secured with fraying rope. I reach it just as Erisen begins to fuss again, his tiny hands curling into fists against my chest.

"Just a moment more," I whisper, kissing his forehead through the cloth.

With strength I didn't know I possessed, I grasp the wagon's edge and pull myself up, biting my lip until I taste blood to keep from crying out.

My raw hands burn against the rough wood, but I manage to roll myself and Erisen into the narrow space between two crates.

I pull a torn tarp over us, breathing through the musty smell of whatever this merchant transports.

Moments later, the wagon rocks as the driver climbs onto his seat, still muttering curses about the butcher's parentage. A whip cracks, and the zarryn pulling the wagon snort their displeasure before lurching forward.

I curl around Erisen, shielding his small body from the jostling ride. Each bump sends daggers of pain through my healing wounds, but I welcome it. Pain means we're still moving. Pain means we're getting further from Vorrak with every turn of the wheels.

"We're going to be okay," I whisper to my son, though I have no right to make such promises. I stroke his cheek, marveling at the softness of his skin. "We're going to find somewhere safe."