Page 11

ESALYN

I 'm cutting zynthra when I first notice it—the distinct pause in Erisen's humming from the doorway.

Just a moment's hesitation before he abandons the tune altogether.

When I glance over my shoulder, he's already halfway out the door, clutching his drawing to his chest like it might blow away in the perpetual ashen breeze.

"Stay where I can see you," I call after him, the words so familiar they might as well be carved into my tongue.

Erisen doesn't answer, but he doesn't go far.

Just to the edge of the alley where our broken-down shack meets the wider street, his small frame silhouetted against the rusty light of Velzaroth's eternal dusk.

His head pivots left, then right, scanning the crowds with an intensity that makes my chest tighten.

I know exactly who he's looking for.

The knife in my hand stills against the cutting board.

I should call him back inside, continue our routine as if the demon hasn't carved himself a space in our lives.

As if Erisen doesn't light up when he appears, as if my own pulse doesn't quicken at the sight of broad shoulders and calculating gold eyes.

Instead, I watch my son wait, hope making him stand straighter than any six-year-old should know how to stand.

"He's just a demon passing through," I'd told myself the first time Domno appeared, materializing like a shadow come to life in the market.

"Just curious about a half-blood child," I'd reasoned the second time, when he'd pulled Erisen to safety that day we first met.

"Just being kind," I'd thought the third time, when he presented my son with a carved wooden bird so delicate it seemed impossible it came from those scarred, battle-worn hands.

Now it's been three weeks, and I've run out of excuses.

Erisen bounces on his toes, impatience vibrating through his small body.

The paper in his hands crinkles as he adjusts his grip, careful not to smudge the chalk illustration he spent all morning crafting.

From here, I can make out splashes of red and green—another of his fantastical creatures born from a mind too gentle for this ash-choked city.

I should be terrified that my son waits so eagerly for a demon. After what Vorrak did to me—what he would do to Erisen if he found us—I should forbid any contact with Domno's kind.

But Domno isn't like Vorrak. That became clear the moment he knelt to meet my son's eyes as an equal, rather than looking down at him as a curiosity or possession.

The knife resumes its rhythm against the cutting board, the steady thunk-thunk-thunk matching my heartbeat.

Outside, Erisen's posture changes, his spine straightening like a bowstring pulled taut.

My gaze follows his, landing on the tall, dark figure appearing from the direction of the eastern quarter.

Domno moves like smoke through water—fluid yet substantial, each step deliberate despite his casual pace.

His long black hair is tied back today, emphasizing the sharp planes of his face and the regal curve of his horns.

Even dressed simply in a worn leather tunic and dark pants, he carries himself with a predator's confidence.

But it's not fear that flutters beneath my ribs as I watch him approach.

"DOMNO!" Erisen's voice rings out, high and clear against Velzaroth's constant background rumble of steam vents and distant machinery. He waves his drawing overhead like a flag, nearly bouncing in place.

I move to the doorway, drying my hands on my apron. Close enough to intervene if needed, but giving them space—this strange ritual that has somehow become part of our lives.

Domno's stern expression breaks at the sight of my son. It's subtle—just a softening around the eyes, a slight quirk of his mouth—but the transformation is startling. The dangerous hunter vanishes, replaced by something I don't have a name for.

"What's this?" he asks, his deep voice carrying to where I stand. He kneels in one fluid motion, bringing himself to Erisen's height—a gesture that makes my throat tighten inexplicably. Demons don't kneel. Not to anyone, certainly not to half-blood children.

Erisen thrusts the paper forward, words tumbling out in his excitement.

"I drew monsters! But they're good monsters, not scary ones.

This one"—he points to a spiky green blob—"is made of grass and sticks and protects the forest. And this one"—his finger moves to a swirl of red and orange—"is made of fire but he doesn't burn anything unless it's bad people. "

Domno studies the drawing with the same intensity I've seen him assess potential threats in the market. His brow furrows slightly as he takes in every detail, treating my son's imagination with the seriousness of a battle plan.

"Strong creatures," he says after a moment, his rough voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "Good defenders. You gave the fire one clever eyes."

Erisen beams at the praise, his face lit with a joy so pure it makes my chest ache. "They're friends," he explains earnestly. "Like us."

Something flickers across Domno's face—too quick to read, but enough to make me wonder what ghosts he carries. Then he nods, a solemn agreement between equals.

"Like us," he affirms, and though the words are simple, they carry a weight I can feel even from where I stand.

I should interrupt. Should call Erisen inside, thank the demon for his time and establish boundaries that have already been trampled beyond recognition.

Instead, I lean against the doorframe and watch as my son launches into another story about his imaginary guardians, hands gesturing wildly in the air.

Domno listens with unwavering attention, nodding at appropriate moments, occasionally asking questions that set Erisen off on new tangents. There's an ease between them that defies explanation—as if they've known each other for years instead of weeks.

And as the story unfolds, I find myself watching Domno's face more than my son's. The subtle shifts in his expression as he responds to Erisen—amusement, interest, something almost like tenderness—reveal glimpses of a man beneath the demon's carefully constructed armor.

When he smiles—really smiles, not the calculated expressions he offers in the marketplace—it transforms his entire face.

The hard angles soften, the ever-present vigilance in his eyes gives way to something warmer, and for a moment, I glimpse someone who might have existed before whatever battles carved those scars into his skin.

That smile creates an ache deep in my chest, a yearning I don't dare name.

A breeze stirs, carrying the metallic tang that always hangs in Velzaroth's air.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, watching as Erisen's small hand traces invisible patterns across Domno's leather glove.

The demon doesn't pull away. Doesn't tense.

Doesn't snap that a half-blood child shouldn't touch him.

"This river goes all the way to the ocean," Erisen explains, his finger drawing a winding path across Domno's palm. "And the treasure is here, under the big tree that talks."

"Clever hiding place," Domno replies, the rumble of his voice carrying across the small space between us. "Talking trees make good guards."

My son grins up at him, gold flecks in his dark eyes catching light just like Domno's—a demon trait that sends fear through me every time a stranger looks too closely. But Domno's gaze holds no disgust, no calculation, only a patient attentiveness that makes my chest tight.

I should end this now. Thank him for his kindness and send him on his way. Kindness from a demon always has a price—this lesson is etched into my skin, into six years of running, into nights I still wake gasping from memories of Vorrak's "generosity."

Yet something in Domno's demeanor makes the warning stick in my throat.

The careful way he positions himself, always making sure I can see his hands.

The space he maintains between us, never crowding or using his height to intimidate.

The respect—actual respect—with which he addresses me, as though I'm more than a human woman with nothing to offer.

He looks up, catching me watching them. For a heartbeat, those gold eyes meet mine, something unspoken passing between us before I look away.

"We don't owe him anything," I remind myself, gripping the doorframe harder.

His occasional protection in the market, the wooden bird that now sits on our windowsill, the small pouch of healing herbs he'd silently left last week when Erisen had a cough—none of it creates a debt. I won't allow it to.

"Mom, Domno knows about the northern mountains!" Erisen's voice breaks through my thoughts. "He's been there!"

I focus on them again. My son has somehow migrated into the circle of Domno's crossed legs, looking up at him with undisguised admiration. The demon sits perfectly still, as if afraid any movement might startle the child now leaning trustingly against his knee.

"The Ridge," Domno corrects gently. "Treacherous for those who don't know its paths."

"Have you climbed the highest peak?" Erisen asks, eyes wide.

Something passes over Domno's face—a shadow of memory, perhaps pain—before he shakes his head. "Not the highest. I hunted through the middle passes."

The word "hunted" sends a chill up my spine, a stark reminder of what he is. A demon bounty hunter. A killer for hire. The stories they whisper about him in the market—they can't all be lies.

Yet here he sits, cross-legged in the dirt outside our broken-down shelter, letting my six-year-old son map imaginary rivers across his battle-scarred hands.

"You'll come tomorrow too?" Erisen asks suddenly, looking up with such naked hope that I have to press my lips together to keep from intervening.

Domno's eyes flick to mine, questioning. Asking permission in a way Vorrak never did, in a way I'd never expected from a demon.

I should say no. Should establish boundaries that have been blurring since the first day he appeared. Instead, I find myself giving a small nod, something foreign and warm unfurling in my chest when the tension in his shoulders eases.

"If your mother has no objection," he tells Erisen, his deep voice careful.

My son turns to me, eyebrows raised in silent pleading. For a moment, I see his future stretching before him—a life of hiding, of never having friends, of learning too young that trust is a luxury we can't afford.

"You can come," I say, the words feeling like both surrender and defiance.

The smile that breaks across Erisen's face is worth whatever risk I've just taken. Even Domno looks momentarily surprised, a flash of something almost vulnerable crossing his features before his composure returns.

This is fine, I tell myself. We can be friendly. Just that. Nothing more. Nothing closer. I've learned the cost of getting too close, especially to demons.

But as Erisen curls closer to Domno's side, continuing his story about treasure and talking trees, and as Domno listens with that steady, unwavering attention, I can't deny the quiet voice inside me wondering if perhaps this demon is different.

I've been wrong before. Catastrophically wrong. But watching them together—my son's animated gestures and Domno's gentle responses—makes me contemplate what it might mean to be right this time.

Just friendly, I repeat to myself. Nothing more.

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.