Page 30

ESALYN

M orning brings with it a clarity I'd forgotten was possible. The light filtering through the cracked temple ceiling creates patterns across the stone floor—like secrets finally revealed after years of hiding.

Erisen sleeps soundly in the small alcove we've made into his bed, dark hair falling across his face, small hands curled protectively around the wooden bird Domno carved for him.

I watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, allowing myself this moment to simply breathe in the miracle of his safety.

Domno emerges from outside, ducking his large frame through the temple's entrance.

His movements are measured, favoring his left side where the worst of yesterday's wounds still trouble him, though he works hard to hide it.

The morning light catches on his horns, turning them from dark obsidian to something almost iridescent.

Against his gray skin, the scars from countless battles stand out like silver tributaries—each one a story I'm only beginning to learn.

In his hand, he holds the bounty scroll that started everything. The parchment looks small and insignificant in his scarred fingers, yellowed at the edges and stained with what might be blood.

"You kept it?" I ask, my voice quiet so as not to wake Erisen.

Domno's golden eyes meet mine. "I did" His jaw tightens. "But not for why you think."

He crosses to one of the candles, carefully lighting it.

And then he holds the tip of the bounty scroll to the flame, letting it burn away on the curling ink where my name and crude likeness are rendered in heavy strokes.

Five hundred novas for a woman and her halfling child.

A price that once meant everything to him and now means nothing.

"It's over," he says, his low voice rumbling through the temple space. "Vorrak is dead, which means the hunt is over."

I watch as he holds the parchment over the flames. For a moment, he simply stares at it, as if memorizing the weight of his choices. Then he lets it fall from his fingers.

We watch together as the edges blacken and curl on the stone floor, the ink bubbling before disappearing into smoke.

My name burns away first, then my description, then the reward amount—all of it turning to ash before our eyes.

Something sacred lives in this gesture, a ritual cleansing more powerful than any words could be.

Domno crushes the flames beneath his boot once it is done.

"I'm done," Domno says, turning to face me fully. The firelight catches in his eyes, turning them to liquid gold. "No more bounty hunting. Not now." His gaze flickers to where Erisen sleeps, tenderness softening the hard angles of his face. "Not with a family to lose."

Family . The word settles in my chest, spreading warmth through limbs that have known nothing but cold vigilance for so long. I don't speak—can't, around the emotion clogging my throat—just reach up and press my lips to his jaw, sealing the promise between us.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, fingers tangling gently in my hair as if I'm something precious, something worth protecting. The strength in his touch belies its gentleness, reminding me of who he is—a predator who chooses, every moment, to be soft with those he loves.

The summer sun slants through windows that don't leak when it rains. Windows that actually open when I want air and close when the ash storms blow in from the caldera. Windows that belong to me—to us.

I run my fingers along the smooth wooden sill, still marveling at how solid everything feels.

Three months in this house, and I still expect to wake up back in that leaning shack with its perpetually damp corners and creaking floorboards that threatened to give way under even Erisen's slight weight.

But this is real. The three-room house nestled into the mid-cliffs of Velzaroth is ours, paid for with honest coin that Domno earned as hired protection for merchant caravans. No blood money. No bounties. Just the sweat on his brow and the strength in his hands.

Behind me, I hear Erisen's excited chatter as Domno helps him lace his boots.

My son's voice grows louder with each passing week, as though he's making up for all the years I taught him to whisper, to hide, to make himself invisible.

Now, his laughter echoes off stone walls that don't tremble in the wind.

"Can we look for blue ones today?" Erisen asks, his small fingers tracing the curved edge of Domno's horn in that familiar, affectionate gesture he's developed. "Blue stones like your favorite knife?"

"If that's what you want, little warrior." Domno's voice carries that gentle rumble that seems reserved only for Erisen. "The tide's gone out. Should be good hunting along the southern coves."

I turn to watch them, my chest tightening with that now-familiar ache that isn't quite pain. Domno kneels before my son, his massive frame somehow making itself smaller, less imposing. His battle-scarred hands move with surprising delicacy as they tighten the laces on Erisen's boots.

Erisen's face is tilted up, those golden eyes—so eerily similar to Domno's—wide with adoration.

His small horns have grown nearly an inch in these peaceful months, no longer something to be hidden beneath carefully arranged hair but proudly displayed, polished with oil that Domno bought from a traveling merchant.

"Ready?" I ask, pulling my cloak from its hook. The cliffside winds are wild today; I can hear them singing around the corners of our solid stone home.

Domno rises, ruffling Erisen's dark hair before crossing to me. His movements still carry that predatory grace, but there's an ease to him now that wasn't there before. As if some part of him that was always braced for attack has finally unclenched.

"Almost," he murmurs, hands coming to rest on my waist. Even after months of this—his touch, his closeness—I still feel that flutter of disbelief. That this deadly, beautiful creature chooses gentleness with me.

He leans down, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss that tastes of the blackbrew tea he drinks each morning and something else entirely his own. When he pulls back, his golden eyes hold mine, searching, as if making sure I'm still here, still real.

"Now we're ready."

The path to the cliffs winds through the outskirts of Velzaroth, past vendors hawking firespun glass and the metalworkers' quarter where hammers ring against anvils in complex rhythms. The smell of sizzling tuskram meat mingles with the ever-present scent of sulfur and sea salt.

No one gives us a second look. In Velzaroth, a demon walking with a human woman and their halfling child barely merits a raised eyebrow. The city forgets quickly, and in its collective amnesia, we've found our freedom.

Erisen races ahead once we clear the market, eager to reach the cliffs where the black stone meets the crimson sea. His small form weaves between the twisted, heat-resistant bushes that cling to the path, their silver leaves fluttering in the salt-thick wind.

"Not too far!" I call out of habit, though I know Domno's keen eyes never leave him. The fear that ruled me for so long is slower to fade than I would like.

Domno's hand slips into mine, his calloused palm warm against my skin. "He's alright," he says quietly. "We both are."

The wind picks up as we reach the cliff's edge, wild and untamed, whipping my hair across my face. Far below, the sea crashes against black stone, sending up plumes of spray that catch the light like liquid fire. The horizon stretches endlessly, a meeting of red sky and darker water.

Erisen stands near the edge—close enough to see but far enough to be safe—his arms spread wide as if embracing the vastness before him. The joy in his posture, in the tilt of his head and the set of his small shoulders, nearly brings me to my knees.

Domno moves behind me, encircling my waist with strong arms as he presses a kiss to the tender spot where my neck meets my shoulder. When I turn to look at him, his expression steals my breath—wonder and disbelief and a vulnerability few have ever witnessed.

"I don't deserve this," he murmurs, so softly the wind nearly steals the words.

I reach up, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slight rasp of stubble beneath my fingertips. His eyes flutter closed at my touch, those lethal shoulders easing beneath an invisible weight.

"Maybe not," I say with a small smile. "But you came for us anyway."

Something shifts in his expression—a tightness giving way, a darkness lifting. He pulls me closer, burying his face in my hair as if I'm the only anchor in a storm-tossed sea. When he looks up again, his eyes meet mine with a clarity I've never seen before.

For the first time, he believes he might be enough.

And for me, for us, he is.

We are enough for each other.