Page 21

DOMNO

I haven't slept in three days.

I prowl Velzaroth's underbelly like the predator I am, following trails that grow colder with each passing hour. The familiar weight of purpose settles into my bones, sharper now than it's been in years. Not since Zevan died have I hunted with such ferocity.

The difference is that then, I hunted to kill. Now, I hunt to save.

"You saw a woman," I growl, lifting the tavern keeper by his throat until his feet dangle. His eyes bulge, face purpling as he claws uselessly at my grip. "Human. Small. Dark hair. With a boy."

Around us, the other patrons of this piss-stained establishment fade back into shadows. Nobody wants to get involved when a demon loses his temper. Especially one with horns as large as mine—a sign of power they all recognize.

"Three nights ago," he chokes out, spittle running down his chin. "Heading west. Wouldn't... wouldn't say where."

I drop him, watching dispassionately as he crumples to the floor, gasping. "Next time," I say quietly, "you tell me immediately. Or I come back and take more than just your breath."

His frantic nod follows me as I stalk out, shouldering through the doorway that's too small for my frame. The heat from the sulfur vents hits me like a wall, but I barely notice. The burn in my lungs is nothing compared to the fire in my chest.

West. It's not much, but it's something.

Dawn breaks red and angry over Velzaroth's jagged skyline as I make my way through the western quarter.

Windows are boarded here, doors barricaded against the desperate.

The air reeks of decay and ash, coating my tongue with each inhale.

It's the kind of place people disappear. The kind of place Esalyn would choose.

Smart woman. Always thinking three steps ahead.

I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing one of the stones there. One that I gave Erisen. I collected all his treasures in my pack, refusing to leave them behind. But this one I keep it close like a talisman.

A group of street children huddle near a steaming grate, their hollow eyes following my movement with practiced wariness. I approach slowly, hands visible. Among the human and half-breed faces, I spot a gaunt half-demon boy, his tiny horns barely visible beneath matted hair.

"Food for information," I say, setting down a package wrapped in cloth. The scent of fresh bread wafts from it—more than these children have seen in weeks.

Their leader, a girl missing half her ear, steps forward. "Whatcha want, demon?"

"A woman and boy. Human mother, half-demon son. They're running."

The children exchange glances. Information is currency in Velzaroth, and they know its worth. The half-demon boy whispers something to the girl, who nods.

"We saw them two days ago," she says. "Near the sewers beneath Old Temple District. Woman looked scared. Boy wouldn't stop crying."

My chest tightens. Erisen crying. The image slices through me like a blade. Was he afraid? Hungry? Missing his collection he left behind?

Missing me?

I toss another package toward them. "That's for the truth," I say, turning away before they can see how their words have affected me.

The Old Temple District looms before me, its crumbling spires reaching toward the crimson sky like grasping fingers. Once, pilgrims flocked here to worship gods whose names are now forgotten. Now it houses only ghosts and those desperate enough to live among them.

A good place to disappear. An even better place to die unnoticed.

I navigate the maze of fallen columns and headless statues, mapping the possible entrances to the sewer system beneath. Five, maybe six access points. All hidden. All dangerous.

Just like the woman I seek.

Night falls, and still I search, moving with a predator's patience through places no sane being would enter willingly.

I kick down rotting doors, scale crumbling walls, drop into black pits that reek of sulfur and death.

My body remembers old skills, muscles recalling the efficiency of movement I'd cultivated as Ikoth's most feared bounty hunter.

The hunt awakens something in me I thought long dead. Not just the ruthlessness or the singular focus—though those flood back like old friends—but the clarity. The purpose.

For years after Zevan died, I drifted through life half-dead, taking contracts to fill my purse so I could empty it again at taverns across Aerasak. I became a ghost haunting my own existence, a blade without direction, cutting whatever was placed before me.

Until Esalyn.

Until Erisen.

Until I found myself carving wooden birds in the predawn hours, thinking of a small boy's smile. Until I discovered myself lingering at market stalls, wondering if she would like the scent of this oil or the color of that fabric. Until I realized I was planning for tomorrows again.

Three more informants. Two broken arms. One nearly crushed windpipe.

The information trickles in, pieces of a puzzle I assemble with meticulous care.

A sighting near the western aqueduct. A woman trading a hair ribbon for bread.

A child with golden eyes hiding beneath a merchant's cart during a guard patrol.

I'm getting closer. I can feel it.

On the fifth day, as crimson rain begins to fall—acid-laced droplets that sizzle against stone—I corner a smuggler who specializes in moving people out of Velzaroth. His eyes widen when he sees me, fear scenting the air between us.

"The woman and child," I say, voice deadly calm as I press the edge of my blade against his throat. "You've arranged passage for them."

He swallows, the movement pushing his skin against the sharpened metal. A bead of blood forms, dark against his pale flesh.

"They're gone," he whispers. "Left on this morning's caravan."

The world stops. The breath freezes in my lungs.

"Where?" I demand, pressing harder.

"Northeast passage. Through the Ridge."

I release him, already calculating. The Ridge—the treacherous mountain path connecting Velzaroth to the outer territories. A desperate route. A dangerous one.

The bounty doesn't matter. It never did, not really—not after I saw her with Erisen that first day in the market. Not after I understood what I was being paid to destroy. But now, even the pretense of it is gone. The job is a ghost, an excuse I used to stay near them while I figured out what to do.

Now I know. I need to find them. Protect them. Be the shield between them and a world that wants to use them both.

I need to tell her that she was never the job. She became the reason I would never do another. Because I had nothing left to hunt.

I push myself beyond exhaustion, beyond reason, as I track the northeastern mountain path. My boots slip on loose shale, catching myself before I tumble into the ravine below. Six days without proper rest has dulled my reflexes, but I refuse to stop. Not when I'm this close.

The Ridge isn't meant for travelers—it's a death trap of narrow passages and sudden drops, where sulfur vents belch toxic fumes without warning. Only the desperate or the hunted use these routes. Esalyn fits both categories.

At a crossroads marked by a lightning-struck tree, I crouch to examine the ground. The recent acid rain has washed away most traces, but there—a small footprint pressed into mud, too small for an adult. Erisen. My chest tightens at the sight.

I follow the trail until dusk, when a grizzled nomad tending a hidden campfire grunts information my way after I offer him a flask of amerinth.

"Human woman?" He gestures vaguely toward the cliffs that rise like broken teeth against the crimson sky.

"Saw her two days past. Pretty thing, scared eyes.

Had a half-blood boy. Keeping to the shadows, they were.

" He takes another swig. "Heading for the old shrine—the Temple of Forgotten Names, they call it. Nobody goes there. Bad omens."

Perfect for hiding. Perfect for ambush.

I leave him with the rest of the flask and set out immediately, pushing my body harder. The temple sits carved into the very edge of the cliffs, half-swallowed by ancient lava flows now hardened to black basalt. It's barely visible against the darkening sky, its spires crumbled like broken fingers.

From my vantage point in the twisted scrub brush, I watch the temple for hours. Nothing moves, yet I sense life within. I know Esalyn's patterns—she'll wait until full dark before risking movement, when the red moon casts enough light to see by but shadows are deep enough to hide in.

And there—a small figure emerges first, cautious as a wild thing. Erisen. His slight frame is tense, golden eyes scanning the perimeter before he signals behind him. Esalyn follows, a knife—my knife that I gave to her—gripped tightly in her hand.

The sight of them steals my breath. They're alive. But gods, they look wrong. Broken somehow.

Erisen's cheeks have hollowed in the short time since I last saw him, more sadness than weight. He's dirty, somehow looking smaller, and even from this distance, I can see the way he hunches his shoulders—a protective stance I know too well. It's like he's completely withdrawn into himself.

And Esalyn... She moves like a wounded predator, each step calculated despite her obvious exhaustion.

Her dark hair is pulled back severely, emphasizing the sharpness of her expression.

Shadows pool beneath her eyes, and her hand trembles slightly as she guides Erisen toward a patch of dreelk growing between the rocks.

They gather the bitter greens quickly, stuffing them into a ragged sack. Survival food. My jaw clenches. They should be eating warm meals at a table, not scavenging like animals.

I wait until they've returned inside before circling the temple, identifying entry points.

The main entrance is blocked by rubble—intentional, I suspect—but a narrow window near the back sits partially open.

Inside, the faint glow of votives casts weak light.

The sulfur candles are common enough in Velzaroth not to draw attention, but provide just enough illumination to see by.

Night deepens. I move silently toward the window, listening for any sound from within. Their voices drift out—Esalyn's low murmur as she coaxes Erisen to eat, his small, tired replies. The domesticity of it slices through me. This is what I almost destroyed. What I still might lose.

I wait for silence—for Erisen's breathing to deepen with sleep—before approaching the window. I need to talk to Esalyn and I know she won't just let me in. And I don't want to further upset Erisen.

Hopefully she'll forgive me for breaking in. It's the least of my transgressions.

The frame groans softly as I ease my larger body through, dropping noiselessly to the stone floor inside.

The knife is at my throat before I can fully straighten, its edge pressing cold against my skin.

"I taught you well," I murmur, remaining perfectly still.

Esalyn stands before me, her body taut as a bowstring. The votives cast her face in harsh relief—high cheekbones, hollow cheeks, eyes like open wounds. We stand in a hall and at the very end, the door is cracked. Where Erisen must be.

Her gaze is pure wildfire, burning with equal parts fury and fear. My knife—the one I gave her for protection, the one I taught her to use with my hands guiding hers—doesn't waver at my throat.

"Esalyn," I say her name like a prayer, low and steady. I make no move to defend myself, no attempt to disarm her. I could—we both know it—but I won't. This choice must be hers.

I meet her gaze directly, letting her see everything I've hidden before: the regret, the need, the truth.

And I wait.