Page 12

ESALYN

I t starts as a whisper. Then a ritual. Then something I can't name.

"Will Domno come today?" Erisen asks every morning, hope bright in his golden eyes. The question always hangs in the space between us while I brush his hair carefully over the tiny horns emerging at his temples.

"Perhaps," I answer, though I already know.

Domno appears like clockwork—sometimes with trinkets for Erisen, sometimes with herbs or vegetables I couldn't otherwise afford, and always with that guarded vigilance that both unnerves and comforts me.

He never announces these gifts, simply sets them down without ceremony, as if embarrassed by his own generosity.

Today, he walks us back from the market, keeping pace beside me while Erisen darts ahead, chasing shadows with the stick Domno carved for him.

I catch myself watching the demon's profile for the third time in as many minutes—the sharp line of his jaw, the way the fading light catches on his horns, the careful sweep of his gold eyes as they constantly scan our surroundings.

"Something wrong?" he asks without looking at me, voice low.

Heat creeps up my neck. "No."

But there is something wrong. I'm noticing things I shouldn't: the breadth of his shoulders beneath his worn leather jacket, the graceful economy of his movements, the way his rough voice softens when he speaks to Erisen.

Signs of danger, all of them—evidence that my hard-won walls are developing cracks.

Erisen squeals ahead of us, having discovered a thalivern fluttering near a steam vent. The creature's four iridescent wings catch the ruddy light, momentarily transfixing my son.

"Look! Domno, Mama, look!"

When I glance up at the demon beside me, I find him already watching my son, alert to potential threats yet allowing this small moment of wonder. His hand rests casually near the blade at his hip—a position I've realized is as natural to him as breathing. Not threatening but ready.

The familiar tangle of fear and something warmer twists in my chest.

"He's remarkably observant," Domno comments as we resume walking. "Most children overlook thaliverns—too small, too common."

"He notices everything," I say, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "Sometimes I think he sees more than I do."

Domno's mouth quirks in what might be a smile. "He certainly saw something in me."

The words hang between us, loaded with meaning I'm not ready to unpack. Instead, I focus on Erisen, now carefully tracing patterns in the ash that perpetually dusts Velzaroth's streets.

"Thank you," I say abruptly. "For the herbs. The fever tea helped."

Domno doesn't look at me, but I see tension ease from his shoulders. "Chest congestion can turn dangerous quickly here."

His words are clinical, but I hear the concern beneath them. It's this dichotomy that confuses me most—the brutal efficiency in his movements contradicted by the gentleness he shows my son. The legendary bounty hunter who kneels to examine a child's drawings.

We reach our shack just as the wind picks up, carrying the metallic taste that warns of a fire-storm brewing in the volcanic peaks. Domno glances skyward, nostrils flaring.

"Bad one coming," he says, voice tight.

"Domno, stay for dinner!" Erisen calls, tugging at the demon's hand. "Please? Mom makes dreelk stew when the fire-winds come."

I should say no. Should maintain the distances I've carefully cultivated. But the darkening sky and the way Erisen's small fingers curl around Domno's massive hand stops the refusal in my throat.

Domno looks to me, waiting. Always waiting for my permission, never assuming, never pushing.

"We have enough," I find myself saying. Because Domno has been helping supply us.

His expression remains neutral, but something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps gratitude. "I'll bring meat," he says simply, and disappears into the deepening gloom only to return twenty minutes later with fresh tuskram cuts that must have cost more nodals than I see in a month.

Inside our tiny home, the three of us navigate a small space never meant for someone of Domno's size.

He moves carefully, ducking beneath the low ceiling beams, conscious of his bulk in a way that speaks of long practice.

When his arm brushes mine as I stir the pot, my skin tingles with awareness I have no right to feel.

As we eat, the wind rises, howling around the ramshackle walls.

Erisen sits closer to Domno than necessary, sneaking glances at the demon as if to assure himself he's still there.

For his part, Domno seems content, more relaxed than I've ever seen him, those predator's eyes softening whenever they land on my son.

The first tremor rattles the dishes. A second, stronger, shakes dust from the ceiling.

"Fire-winds shifting the old fault lines," Domno explains, noticing my tense posture. "The tremors rarely last."

But this time they do. The storm builds, unusually fierce, with wind screaming through the cracks in our walls and ash raining down like snow. I've just put Erisen to bed when a particularly violent gust rattles our home's very foundations.

His cry pierces the storm's howl. Before I can move, Domno is already at his bedside, his tall frame a shadow against the ember-lit window.

"Erisen," he murmurs, voice steady against the storm's chaos. "You're safe."

My son's face is tear-streaked, his small body trembling. He reaches for Domno instinctively, and the demon—one who should be feared—doesn't hesitate. He settles beside the bed, allowing Erisen to lean against him as the sky outside burns crimson and gold.

"Will the storm take our house?" Erisen whispers, his voice small beneath the howling wind.

"No," Domno answers with absolute certainty. "These walls have weathered worse."

He doesn't offer empty reassurances or distract with stories. He simply exists—solid, unshaken, an anchor in the storm's fury. My son's trembling gradually subsides as he curls against Domno's side, those small fingers clutching the demon's sleeve.

I stand frozen across the room, witnessing something I never imagined possible—my son finding comfort in a demon's presence. Not just any demon. This one. With his battle scars and gold eyes that see too much.

The ember-glow casts half of Domno's face in shadow, highlighting the sharp angles of his features, the proud curve of his horns. Yet there's nothing threatening in his posture as he sits perfectly still, allowing my son to draw whatever comfort he needs.

My heart constricts with emotions I can't name—or perhaps fear to name. Because this feels dangerous in ways running never did.

When another tremor rattles through our meager dwelling, I instinctively reach for the knife I keep beneath the table.

My fingers close around empty air—I've moved it to the shelf after catching Erisen eyeing it with dangerous curiosity.

The momentary panic that flashes through me dissolves when I look across the room to find Domno hasn't moved, his steady presence anchoring my son against the storm's fury.

"The mountain is just stretching," he tells Erisen, his deep voice a counterpoint to the wind's shriek. "Like you do when you wake up."

My son's small face turns up to him, skepticism battling fear in those golden eyes so like Domno's own. "Mountains don't stretch."

"They do," Domno answers with complete seriousness. "I've been alive much longer than you. Seen it happen."

The corner of my mouth lifts without permission as Erisen considers this with all the gravity a six-year-old can muster.

Domno doesn't speak to him with that falsely bright voice adults often use with children.

He addresses him directly, honestly, respecting his intelligence even while simplifying complex concepts.

I pull my shawl tighter and settle onto the floor by the hearth. Though I should insist Erisen sleep, these storms have terrified him since infancy. And in truth, this one is worse than most—a convulsion of Velzaroth's volcanic heart that sends tremors up through the stone beneath us.

Erisen's small fingers trace one of the scars on Domno's forearm—a pale line against gray skin. "Did that hurt?"

"Yes," Domno answers simply. No embellishment, no warrior's boasting.

"My mama has scars too," Erisen confides, his voice drowsy despite the storm. "On her back. She says they're stories she doesn't want to read."

Something flickers in Domno's eyes—a flash of heat quickly controlled.

His gaze lifts to mine across the dim room, and I feel exposed in ways that have nothing to do with my clothed body.

The marks Vorrak left on me are hidden beneath fabric, yet Domno sees them anyway—or rather, sees what they represent.

The vulnerability in his gaze unnerves me more than any storm.

I look away first.

"Some stories we keep to ourselves," Domno tells Erisen, his voice impossibly gentle for a creature built from battle and blood. "It doesn't mean they didn't happen."

The kindness in those words scrapes against something raw inside me. When did this demon learn to speak to wounds without touching them? To acknowledge pain without demanding its exposure?

Erisen's eyes grow heavier as Domno's steady presence works its magic. My son fought sleep like this for months after we fled—jerking awake at every sound, crying silently against my shoulder. Now, he slumps against Domno's side, his breathing gradually deepening despite the continuing tremors.

I don't know when I began relying on that—this strange peace Domno brings with him.

I don't want to need anyone, and yet I've caught myself listening for his footsteps in the ash-thick streets.

I've caught myself smiling when I see him, my body easing before I even realize it.

The constant vigilance that has been my companion since escape loosens its grip when he's near.

I tell myself it's temporary—just safety in a dangerous place—but my heart is slower to lie.

Trust is building in the quiet moments, not because I offer it, but because he earns it without trying.

In the way he stands between Erisen and the market crowds.

In how he enters our home with a careful respect that suggests he knows exactly how precious the space is to us.

In the fact that he has never once asked about the horns my son tries so desperately to hide.

Domno shifts slightly as Erisen finally surrenders to sleep, easing my son down onto the thin mattress with a gentleness that belies his warrior's hands.

Those hands that I've seen wrap around the hilt of his blade with deadly precision now tuck a threadbare blanket around my child's shoulders.

He moves with exquisite care, as if Erisen is made of something infinitely precious and fragile.

The sight burns a hole straight through the armor I've spent six years building around my heart.