Page 10

DOMNO

I feel oddly uneasy when I leave Esalyn and Erisen hours later. But I don't go to my room. I go to where information is spread and can give me a better idea of what is waiting for us. Of how much time I have.

Heavy smoke hangs in the air of The Broken Horn, a tavern where the walls sweat as much as the patrons.

It's well past midnight, and I find myself perched on a stool worn smooth by years of similarly disreputable asses.

The place reeks of stale amerinth, sweat, and the particular tang of desperate decisions being made.

Perfect for my needs.

I nurse a drink I have no intention of finishing—a murky concoction that probably contains more ash than alcohol.

My fingers curl around the chipped glass, seemingly relaxed, though my body remains coiled tight beneath my casual posture.

Nothing about me says "I'm listening" except that I am, every sense tuned to the conversations bleeding together around me.

A pair of smugglers argue about cargo routes to my left. Behind me, a woman with scales freckling her cheeks haggles with a man missing three fingers. Information flows like sewage in places like this—abundant, filthy, but valuable if you know how to filter it.

The bartender—a hulking creature with tusks filed to sharp points—slides another drink in front of me without asking. I haven't finished the first, but that's not the point. The cost of occupying space here is continuous patronage.

"Haven't seen you in a while," he grunts, voice like gravel shifting underfoot. I did spend the first week here in Velzaroth drinking myself underneath his bar.

I shrug. "Been busy."

His yellow eyes assess me with the particular wariness of someone who's broken up too many lethal fights. "Must be. All the hunters have been scrabbling for work lately. Except you."

There's a question beneath his observation. I ignore it, sliding a few lummis across the scarred wood instead. The coins disappear beneath his massive hand.

"Heard anything interesting?" I ask, the practiced casualness of someone making conversation rather than gathering intelligence.

He snorts, a sound like metal scraping against stone. "Depends what you find interesting. Had four brawls this week. Found a severed hand in the privy." He leans forward, dropping his voice. "And there's rumors a kal'galan finally made it to the city."

That catches my attention. Kal'galan are rare—demons who practice blood magic, outlawed even in the lawless corners of Ikoth. If one's in Velzaroth, things will get bloody fast.

But it's not what I came for.

I'm about to press further when a burst of laughter erupts from a table in the corner. Three mercenaries—two human, one with the telltale ridged skin of a half-gorgon—sprawl around a table littered with empty glasses.

"—wasting his time," the half-gorgon says, voice carrying through the smoky air. "Five hundred novas just sitting there unclaimed."

My fingers tighten imperceptibly around my glass. The mercenary beside him—a woman with a scar bisecting her face—leans forward.

"You sure it hasn't been collected? Seems like easy money, tracking down one human woman."

Something cold settles in my stomach. I don't move, don't react, though my pulse quickens beneath my skin.

"Positive," the half-gorgon replies, tapping ash from a rolled herb onto the table. "Spoke to Thren's courier myself yesterday. Said they're getting impatient, might double the bounty soon."

The name slams into me like a physical blow. Thren. Vorrak Thren'Surath. Other hunters are talking to him? Asking about the bounty?

And I've been playing house with his quarry.

"You going after it?" the third mercenary asks, a burly human with fingers stained black with what might be poison.

The half-gorgon laughs. "Nah. Got better things to do than chase some noble's runaway pet."

Heat flares behind my eyes at his words, a familiar precursor to violence. I imagine the satisfying crunch his windpipe would make beneath my hand, how easily his spine would snap if I decided to make an example of him.

Instead, I remain still, processing the implications of what I've just heard. Vorrak Thren'Surath is still pushing to get Esalyn. To get Erisen. And he's growing impatient enough to raise the bounty.

Which means others will come—hunters less conflicted than I've become. Hunters who won't hesitate to drag them back to whatever fate awaits in Reinmirth.

I drain my untouched drink in one swallow, letting the harsh liquor burn away the tightness in my throat. The tavern suddenly feels too close, too stifling, filled with potential threats rather than just the usual collection of violent opportunists.

Five hundred novas. Soon to be more. For a woman with work-rough hands and a boy who collects colored stones.

And somewhere in one of Reinmirth's black spires, a demon noble waits for their return.

I've barely set the empty glass down when a voice cuts through the tavern's din, low and controlled but unmistakably directed at me.

"Domno Vrath'Sarrin."

Not a question. A summons.

I turn slowly, keeping my movements casual even as every instinct screams to reach for the blade at my hip. The speaker stands three paces away—close enough that he's slipped past my awareness, which means he's better than most.

He's built like a whip, all lean muscle beneath expensive clothes too fine for this part of Velzaroth.

Human, or close enough to pass, with skin so pale it's nearly translucent.

Blue veins map tributaries beneath that sickly canvas.

But it's his eyes that mark him as something other—colorless, like water with all the life leeched out of it.

My gaze drops to his throat, where I find what I'm looking for: a brand burned into the flesh, still raw at the edges. The mark of House Thren'Surath—Vorrak's personal insignia, a stylized demon horn wrapped in thorny vines.

One of Vorrak's couriers then. Blood-bound servants who exist only to deliver messages and die if they fail.

"Been a while since anyone's used my full name," I say, leaning back against the bar as if this interruption is merely a mild nuisance. "You're far from Reinmirth."

The courier's mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Lord Thren'Surath sends his regards. And his... concern. He expected results by now."

Of course he did. Nobles like Vorrak measure time differently than the rest of us—expectation and fulfillment should be separated by nothing more than the span of a thought.

Around us, conversations dim as patrons sense the delicate weight of violence hanging in the air. Not outright fear—this is The Broken Horn, after all—but the instinctive wariness of scavengers detecting larger predators in their midst.

"Your lord's timeline wasn't part of our arrangement," I say, keeping my voice flat. "Tracking takes time."

The courier's empty eyes assess me, searching for deception. "Twenty days seems excessive for a human woman with limited resources. Especially for a hunter of your... reputation."

There's a barb in those words, a delicate questioning of my abilities that would once have ended with his body cooling on the floor. Now it just makes my jaw clench, the flare of gold in my eyes the only external sign of my irritation.

"She's proven more elusive than expected," I lie smoothly, the words falling from my tongue with practiced ease. "Moves constantly. Has help." I deliberately omit any mention of Erisen. Let Vorrak's pet believe I'm still unaware of the child—it might buy them time if things go sideways.

The courier's head tilts, a movement too precise to be natural. "And yet you remain in Velzaroth."

"She was here. Trail goes cold at the eastern gates. I'm picking up threads." Another lie, offered with the confidence of truth. "Your lord's property will be returned. I don't fail."

"Property," the courier repeats, something like amusement touching his bloodless lips. "Yes, Lord Thren'Surath is most eager to reclaim what's his. He offers an additional three hundred novas if delivery is made within the week."

Eight hundred total. Enough wealth to disappear forever, to drink myself into oblivion on some nameless planet where no one knows what I've done or who I've failed.

All it would cost is Esalyn's freedom. Erisen's future.

I know what they would face in Vorrak's keeping. I've heard the whispers about his particular tastes, the servants who disappear, the screams that echo through his compound. The thought of Esalyn in his hands—of Erisen growing up in those shadows—twists something raw and painful beneath my ribs.

"Tell your lord I'll collect when the job is done." I meet his pale gaze steadily. "No timelines. No guarantees beyond completion."

For a moment, I think he'll press further, but something in my expression must convince him it's unwise. He inclines his head in a mockery of respect.

"Lord Thren'Surath awaits your success." The words carry the weight of a blade against my throat. "Do not disappoint him."

He turns without waiting for a response, slipping through the crowd like smoke. I watch until he disappears through the tavern's warped doorway, only then allowing myself to exhale slowly through clenched teeth.

The bartender sets another drink before me without comment. This time, I don't hesitate. I drain it in one burning swallow, but the fire of cheap amerinth does nothing to drown the disgust twisting in my gut.