Page 16

DOMNO

I 've started counting days. Three since she let Erisen start to spend more time alone with me.

Four since I first tasted her. Six since I told her something that I never share with anyone.

The numbers tick upward in my mind like a countdown moving in reverse—each one bringing me closer to something I can't allow myself to name.

Today, I wait outside their small home as the sun crests the eastern hills, casting Velzaroth in that peculiar crimson light that makes every shadow look like spilled blood.

The heat's already rising from the stone streets, promising another scorching day.

I've brought a small basket of fresh zynthra and quillnash from the morning market—the bright vegetables an excuse for my presence that grows flimsier by the day.

I don't need excuses anymore. But old habits die harder than most men I've hunted.

The door creaks open, and Erisen bolts out like he's been waiting with his ear pressed to the wood. Maybe he has. His small face lights up when he sees me, golden eyes—so like mine—gleaming with an innocent joy I'd forgotten existed in this ash-choked world.

"Domno!" He launches himself at me, and I catch him without thinking, letting him scramble onto my shoulders where he's taken to perching. His weight is nothing, but the trust in the gesture still staggers me. "Are we still going to the tide pools?"

"If your mother says it's alright." My voice comes out gruffer than intended. Even after these days together, gentleness doesn't slide off my tongue easily.

Esalyn appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a worn cloth. The morning light catches in her dark hair, picking out threads of gold I've only noticed in these quiet moments. There's caution in her posture—there always is—but something else too. A soft awareness that wasn't there before.

"The tide pools?" She raises an eyebrow. "That's quite a walk for little legs."

"I can walk far!" Erisen protests from his perch. "I'm strong like Domno."

The corner of her mouth twitches upward, and the sight sends a rush of heat through my chest that has nothing to do with the climbing temperature. "Is that so?"

"He won't have to walk much," I say, settling the basket on her rickety table. "I can carry him when he tires."

Her eyes meet mine, holding for a moment longer than necessary. In that silent exchange is a world of unspoken things—trust tentatively offered, boundaries carefully respected, the memory of her mouth under mine when darkness gives us courage.

"Alright," she concedes. "But be back before sundown. The streets aren't safe after dark."

"Neither am I," I remind her, the words escaping before I can stop them.

Something flashes in her eyes—not fear, but awareness. "That's rather the point."

She packs a small bundle for Erisen—extra water, a piece of cloth in case he gets wet.

Her movements are efficient, practiced from years of preparing for quick departures.

I've seen how she keeps their few possessions organized, ready to grab at a moment's notice.

How the boy knows to stay quiet when strangers approach.

The vigilance of prey that's been hunted too long.

It's familiar. I recognize it from my own life.

"Come back for dinner," she says as we prepare to leave. An invitation, not a demand. Another small step across the chasm between us.

The tide pools lie on the far western shore where volcanic rock has created natural basins that fill and empty with the rhythms of the crimson sea.

Erisen chatters the entire journey, asking questions about everything from the batlaz that stalk the night markets to whether demons can fly.

I answer each one truthfully, something shifting in my chest when he accepts my words without the suspicion most would show.

"Why are your scars different colors?" he asks suddenly, small finger pointing to the marks visible above my collar.

I consider lying, or deflecting. But deception feels wrong with him. "The silver ones are from demon blades. The darker ones from other weapons."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore."

He contemplates this with surprising gravity for a child his age. "Mama says the same thing about her scars."

My jaw tightens. I've seen glimpses of those marks when her sleeve slips, thin white lines that speak of systematic cruelty. Thinking of Vorrak's hands on her makes violence rise in me with frightening ease.

"Some scars heal better than others," I tell him. "But they all tell stories of survival."

When we reach the tide pools, Erisen's delight is immediate and infectious.

He kneels at the edge of each basin, marveling at the miniature worlds contained within.

Small, colorful creatures dart between crevices.

Tiny silver fish flash like liquid metal.

His childish wonder at these simple things loosens something knotted inside me.

I sit on a sun-warmed rock, watching him explore. My eyes scan the horizon reflexively, tracking movement, assessing threats, planning escape routes. The habits of a lifetime don't fade in two weeks.

"Look!" Erisen holds up a spiraling shell, its surface pearlescent in the sunlight. "It's even prettier than the last one!"

"A good find," I agree, accepting it when he places it solemnly in my palm. "Your collection grows impressive."

"It's our collection," he corrects, absolute certainty in his voice. "Yours and mine and Mama's."

The simple inclusion scrapes against my heart like a blade. Our collection. As though I've always been part of their small unit, as though I belong there. As though I'm not hunting them still, according to every contract I've signed.

The nights have become both salvation and torment.

After Erisen sleeps, Esalyn and I sit outside beneath stars partly obscured by Velzaroth's perpetual haze.

We talk in low voices about nothing important—the day's events, Erisen's latest discoveries, safe topics that skirt the edge of deeper waters.

Sometimes silence stretches between us, comfortable in a way I'd forgotten silence could be.

And sometimes I kiss her. Or she kisses me. The boundaries blur more each night.

Last night, her head rested against my shoulder as we watched the twin moons rise above the jagged skyline.

The weight of her, warm and trusting against me, had been almost unbearable in its simplicity.

When she tilted her face up, questioning, I'd answered with my mouth on hers, gentle at first, then hungry with a need I've denied for too long.

Her fingers had traced the scars at my neck, learning them without revulsion. My hands had spanned her waist, marveling at how perfectly she fit against me. We hadn't spoken of what it meant. Speaking would make it real, and reality brings consequences neither of us seems ready to face.

I let Erisen explore every pool, patient as he discovers each minute wonder of this tiny corner of Aerasak.

His concentration is absolute, brow furrowed beneath the dark hair that's growing just long enough to cover the nubs of his horns.

I watch his small fingers, so careful with each creature he finds, placing them back exactly where they came from.

No cruelty in him, despite his bloodline. Despite his father.

"Can we come back tomorrow?" he asks, squinting up at me against the crimson sky.

"Perhaps." I help him gather his collection of shells, smooth stones, and a curiously shaped piece of driftwood that resembles a batlaz with its ears perked. "Your mother might have other plans."

He considers this with a solemnity that seems too heavy for his small shoulders. "She doesn't like to plan too much. Says plans get broken."

The observation cuts with unexpected precision.

I know the logic—planning creates attachment, attachment creates vulnerability.

Better to expect nothing, to be ready to run at any moment.

I lived that way after Zevan died, bounty to bounty, town to town, no roots to tear out when the time came to move on.

"Sometimes," I say carefully, "breaking a plan isn't always bad."

We walk back slower than we came, Erisen's energy finally flagging after hours of exploration. When he stumbles over a loose stone, I lift him without comment, settling him on my shoulders. His small hands grip my horns for balance, more gently than necessary.

"Does it hurt when I touch them?" he asks, voice drowsy with approaching sleep.

"No," I tell him truthfully. "They're the strongest part of me."

His fingers trace the ridges, curious but careful. "Mine are small. Will they get big like yours?"

The question constricts something in my chest. He deserves honesty, but I measure my words carefully. "They'll grow as you do. Each demon's horns are different."

"Even my father's?"

My stride falters slightly. "Yes. Even his."

"I don't remember him," Erisen says after a pause, his voice smaller. "Is that bad?"

I adjust his weight on my shoulders, buying time to master the rage that pulses at the mention of Vorrak. "No. Some things aren't worth remembering."

When we reach their small home, the dying sun casts long shadows across the packed dirt. I set Erisen down, and he immediately scampers to the pile of driftwood I've collected over the past few days to add his treasures. His energy has returned, his resilience remarkable. Like his mother's.

"Can you show me the knife again?" he asks, eyes bright with excitement. He caught me carving his latest wooden creature a few days ago and wanted to learn all about my weapons.

I glance toward the door, checking for Esalyn's approval. She stands framed in the doorway, arms crossed, but her expression holds no objection—just the watchful caution she never fully discards. She gives an almost imperceptible nod.

"Not for using," I clarify, removing the smallest throwing knife from my belt. "For understanding."

I kneel beside him in the dirt, holding the blade flat across my palm. "A knife is like any tool. Respectful hands make it useful. Careless hands make it dangerous."

Erisen listens with rapt attention, his golden eyes fixed on the metal gleaming in the fading light. I show him how to hold it properly, his small fingers mimicking my grip with surprising precision.

"Balance is key," I tell him, guiding his arm through the motion without releasing the blade. "Feel how it wants to move."

When I'm satisfied he understands the basic principle, I set up a piece of driftwood against a rock and stand behind him, my hand over his, controlling the throw. The knife strikes with a satisfying thunk, and his face lights up with triumph.

"Again!"

Esalyn watches from the doorway, her expression softening in increments. The tension in her shoulders eases slightly as she leans against the frame, dark hair falling loose from her usual tight knot. Each time Erisen's aim improves, she allows herself a small smile.

We continue until his small arm trembles with exertion, the determination in his face so fierce it almost masks his fatigue. Almost.

"Enough for today," I say, retrieving the knife one final time.

"One more," he insists, stifling a yawn that contradicts his demand.

"Tomorrow," I counter, sliding the blade back into its sheath. "A tired arm makes poor decisions."

He doesn't argue further, his eyelids already drooping. When he sways slightly on his feet, I lift him without thinking, his small body fitting naturally against my chest. His head drops to my shoulder immediately, tiny fingers curling into the collar of my shirt with instinctive trust.

The weight of him—so slight yet somehow monumental—anchors me to this moment in a way I can't articulate. His breath warm against my neck, his heartbeat a rapid flutter compared to my slower rhythm. I approach the door where Esalyn waits, her eyes tracking us with an emotion I'm afraid to name.

I don't speak. Words would only complicate what's happening between us. Instead, I meet her gaze and give a single nod—asking permission, offering reassurance.

She steps aside to let me enter, the gesture so simple yet loaded with meaning. As if allowing me to carry her sleeping son across her threshold is the most natural thing in the world.

As if letting me in always has been.