Page 26

DOMNO

R einmirth's air feels different from Velzaroth's—heavier with humidity that clings like a second skin, carrying scents of unfamiliar vegetation and decay. The red sky hangs lower here, a permanent blood-stain above me as I survey Vorrak's stronghold from the treeline.

It didn't take long once I was in the city to force an exact location out of someone. And the gaudy estate was horribly easy to spot.

Black stone rises from the jungle clearing, towers crowned with spiked obsidian that glitters wickedly in the dull light. The architecture itself seems to sneer—excessive, ornate cruelty carved into every battlement and archway. The stronghold doesn't just house Vorrak; it embodies him.

I flex my fingers around my sword hilt, the familiar weight grounding me.

Four days of relentless travel have left my body hollow, running on rage and determination instead of food or rest. My gray skin is streaked with dirt and dried blood—some mine, most not.

The wounds from the firemaw have healed to angry red welts across my forearms.

Inside those walls, Erisen waits. Scared. Alone. The thought sends fresh heat coursing through my veins.

I don't bother with stealth or subterfuge. That's not who I am, not what I was made for. Six guards patrol the main gate, alert but unprepared for direct assault. No one would be foolish enough to attack Vorrak's stronghold alone.

No one except a demon with nothing left to lose and everything to save.

I emerge from the trees like a storm front, my blade already singing through the air.

The first guard barely registers my presence before his head separates from his shoulders.

The second manages to raise his weapon—too late.

My sword punches through his chest armor, finding the heart beneath with practiced precision.

"Sound the alarm!" The third guard's shout ends in a wet gurgle as my knife finds his throat.

The remaining three converge on me at once, their coordinated movements marking them as professionals, not conscripts.

I drop into a defensive stance, letting instinct take over.

My body remembers what my mind doesn't need to articulate—the subtle shift of weight that telegraphs an overhead strike, the tightening around the eyes before a lunge.

A blade grazes my shoulder as I pivot between two attackers, using their momentum against them.

One crashes into the other, throwing both off balance.

I exploit the opening, driving my sword through one guard's spine and using the momentum to rip upward through his comrade's abdomen in the same movement.

The last guard backs away, fear sharpening his features. "Demons don't fight like this," he hisses, circling warily. "What are you?"

"A father." The word surprises me as much as him, but it feels true in my bones.

His moment of confusion costs him his life. My blade finds the gap in his armor at the neck, severing his spine before he can process my answer.

Alarm bells begin to ring as I approach the gate, their clangor a battle hymn spurring me forward.

Two more guards rush from a side entrance, crossbows raised.

I don't slow my stride. The first bolt whistles past my ear; the second grazes my thigh, a minor inconvenience.

Before they can reload, I'm upon them, my movements economical and lethal. No wasted motion, no hesitation.

The courtyard beyond the gate reveals more obstacles—a dozen soldiers forming ranks, and archers taking position on the upper walkways. A frontal assault would be suicide.

I scan the stronghold, my hunter's eyes finding the weaknesses others would miss. A drainage channel to the left, partially obscured by decorative stonework. A service entrance near the kitchens, likely guarded but less heavily than the main approaches.

Six years of hunting the most dangerous prey across Aerasak taught me patience and strategy. Brute force has its place, but lives longest when tempered with cunning.

I feint toward the soldiers, drawing their attention and the first volley of arrows, then dive for the drainage channel, rolling beneath the iron grating before they can adjust their aim.

The passage is narrow—designed for water, not warriors—but I force my broad shoulders through, ignoring the stone that scrapes skin from my arms.

The channel opens into a storage cellar, mercifully empty.

I listen for footsteps above, mapping the stronghold's layout through sound and vibration.

Heavy boots thunder across the floor above—guards responding to the alarm.

But beneath that chaos, I detect something else: the lighter tread of servants scurrying through back passages, avoiding the commotion.

Where servants go, paths exist. Where paths exist, I can move unseen.

I emerge from the cellar into a narrow corridor, killing the lone guard stationed there before he can shout. His body provides a uniform that won't withstand close inspection but might confuse at a distance. I strip it quickly, donning the black and silver tabard over my bloodied clothes.

Moving with purpose through servant passages and storage rooms, I dispatch anyone I encounter with silent efficiency. Not out of cruelty—necessity. Each death brings me closer to Erisen, and I cannot allow mercy to cost the boy his freedom or his life.

My senses stretch outward, seeking that familiar trace of magic that clings to the child. Faint at first, then stronger as I ascend a spiraling staircase hidden behind the kitchens. Golden eyes and small hands collecting pebbles fill my thoughts, driving me forward when my body threatens to falter.

I step through the massive onyx doors into Vorrak's throne chamber, their surfaces etched with scenes of conquest and torment.

The room stretches before me like the inside of a mausoleum—all polished black stone and crimson accents, illuminated by floating orbs of amber light that cast more shadows than they banish.

Vorrak sits upon a throne carved from a single piece of volcanic glass, its edges honed to threatening points.

His gray skin carries a bluish undertone that marks higher breeding than mine, and his horns—four of them instead of the common two—curve elegantly upward, tipped with gold. The perfect image of demon aristocracy.

And there, beside him, stands Erisen. My blood roars in my ears at the sight of that small figure, his golden eyes wide with fear, his little body rigid as Vorrak's hand grips his shoulder possessively.

The boy's clothes have been changed—rich fabrics in Vorrak's house colors replacing Esalyn's careful stitching. A visible claiming.

"Domno Vrath'Sarrin," Vorrak's voice slides through the chamber like oil on water. "I'm afraid your bounty has been closed."

I scan the room, marking the positions of four guards—two flanking the throne, two by the doors I've entered through.

All armed with the curved blades favored by Ikoth's elite warriors.

My body throbs with fatigue and fresh wounds, but I straighten to my full height, letting my stolen guard tabard fall to the floor.

"Give me the boy," I say, my voice scraping like stone against steel.

Vorrak's elegant eyebrows rise, and his fingers tighten on Erisen's shoulder until the child winces. "The boy? You mean my son? The one you were contracted to return to me?" He laughs, the sound cold and cutting. "I believe there's been a misunderstanding, bounty hunter."

"The only misunderstanding is yours, thinking you'd ever see him again." I take a step forward, ignoring the guards who immediately tense. "Remove your hand from him."

Erisen's eyes lock with mine, and I see a flicker of hope rise in them. It feeds something primal in my chest—something I thought had died with Zevan.

Vorrak rises, pulling Erisen closer. "Fascinating. You've gone native, Vrath'Sarrin. Developed sympathies for my property." His lip curls. "Did the human whore seduce you? Is that it? Or was it simple greed? Did you think to extort more novas from me?"

My hand tightens on my sword hilt. "A dead man can't claim anyone or anything."

The threat hangs in the air between us, heavy and unmistakable. Vorrak's face darkens, those aristocratic features contorting with rage.

"You dare threaten me? In my own stronghold?" His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "Guards, remove his limbs. Slowly. I want him conscious for what comes after."

The guards move as one, drawing their weapons with practiced precision.

I don't wait for them to reach me. I lunge toward the nearest, driving my shoulder into his chest and using the momentum to swing my blade at the second guard.

The sword connects with a wet thud, and I pivot back to finish the first.

"Run, Erisen!" I shout, but Vorrak has already yanked the boy behind his throne, toward a hidden exit.

The remaining two guards converge on me, their blades a coordinated dance of death.

Under normal circumstances, I'd dispatch them efficiently, but exhaustion makes my movements sluggish.

A blade catches my side, opening a fresh gash beneath my ribs.

Blood, hot and slick, courses down my leg.

Another strike grazes my shoulder, cutting through muscle.

Pain blooms white-hot through my body, but I push through it, focusing on Vorrak's retreating back. On Erisen's fear.

"You'll have to kill me to keep him," I growl, driving my sword through one guard's throat while taking a vicious cut across my back from the other.

I whirl, catching the last guard's sword with my bare hand, feeling flesh part as I pull him forward onto my blade. His weight drives me back against a column, the impact jarring my wounds. My vision swims, black edges creeping in, but I force myself upright.

Vorrak has paused at a side door, watching with cruel amusement. "Look at you," he sneers. "You can barely stand."

He's right. My body is a collection of injuries, each clamoring for attention. The firemaw burns across my arms have reopened, weeping clear fluid down my wrists. The crossbow bolt graze on my thigh throbs with every heartbeat. Fresh cuts and a stab wound leak my lifeblood onto the polished floor.

But none of that matters. Not when Erisen's eyes meet mine again, those golden irises so like my own, filled with a desperate trust that cuts deeper than any blade.

"I don't need to stand," I say, pushing away from the column. "I just need to kill you."