Page 6

DOMNO

I 've positioned myself between a spice merchant and a weapon seller, their competing scents of cardamom and steel oil providing perfect cover.

From here, I can watch Esalyn work without being obvious.

She guts fish with mechanical precision, her knife flashing silver in the weak sunlight filtering through Velzaroth's perpetual haze.

The boy sits cross-legged nearby, playing with those same frayed bits of rope, fashioning them into intricate knots that his small fingers somehow manage without effort.

Six days of watching them has taught me their patterns. Six days of planning how to approach without sending them running. Six days of telling myself this is just another job while something in my chest argues otherwise.

The market pulses around us, a living organism of transaction and survival.

Velzaroth's underbelly always smells the same—sulfur and desperation, with notes of rot beneath.

I've breathed worse. The boy—still nameless in my mind—glances up occasionally, those gold eyes scanning the crowd with unnerving awareness.

Twice already he's nearly spotted me, his gaze sliding past my shadow before darting away.

"Fresh catch!" the fishmonger bellows, drawing more customers. "Straight from the bloodwaters!"

Esalyn doesn't look up, doesn't pause. Her hands are red-raw from the brine and fish guts, but they never falter. The muscles in her forearms flex with each precise cut. Survivor's hands. Fighter's focus.

A commotion erupts at the far end of the market square—shouting, the crash of wood, angry voices rising above the market's normal din.

I straighten, instantly alert. A merchant's cart has toppled, sending barrels rolling across the uneven cobblestones.

People scatter, some cursing, others laughing at the vendor's misfortune.

Then comes the growling.

"Shit," I mutter, spotting the source. A pack of tethered drakehounds—nasty beasts with scaled hides and too many teeth—strain against their bindings, agitated by the sudden chaos.

Their handler, a heavy-set human with scarred arms, struggles to control them as the animals snap and lunge at passersby.

My attention snaps back to Esalyn. She's already moving, head up, hand extended toward where the boy was sitting. But he's not there.

The crowd surges as demons and humans alike push to avoid the rolling barrels and snarling drakehounds.

I scan the churning mass of bodies, searching for that small figure.

There—a flash of dark hair, a small form caught in the current of the panicking crowd.

The boy stumbles as someone shoves past him, sending him directly into the path of a particularly vicious-looking drakehound that's nearly worked its jaw free of its muzzle.

I move before my brain registers the decision, slipping through gaps in the crowd with practiced ease.

No conscious thought, just pure instinct driving me forward.

My hand closes around the back of the boy's cloak, fingers gripping the worn fabric as I yank him backward with enough force to lift him off his feet.

His small body collides with my legs as I pivot, shoving him behind me and into the shelter of an abandoned vegetable stall.

"Stay," I growl, the word rough in my throat. The drakehound lunges, meeting empty air where the child stood moments before.

The boy looks up at me, eyes wide but remarkably free of tears. Not afraid—alert. Calculating. Those gold eyes so like mine assess me with an intelligence that catches me off guard.

"Erisen!" A woman's desperate voice cuts through the chaos.

Esalyn appears through a gap in the crowd, face flushed, breath coming in short gasps.

Her dark hair has escaped whatever binding held it, framing her face in wild tendrils.

When she spots her son, relief floods her features for just an instant before wariness replaces it.

Her gaze lifts to me, and the temperature between us drops ten degrees.

"Mama," the boy—Erisen—whispers, and her arm shoots out, dragging him to her side with protective ferocity.

Her other hand never strays from the crude blade sheathed at her hip, fingers curled around the handle in warning.

Up close, she's even more striking—high cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, full mouth pressed into a hard line, those hazel eyes flecked with gold regarding me with undisguised suspicion.

"Thank you," she says, the words stiff and forced, clearly weighing whether gratitude or immediate retreat serves her better.

I nod once, mouth dry. Up close, her scent hits me—salt water and something warm beneath it, like sun-dried cotton. Her boy—Erisen—watches me with those unnerving eyes, half-hidden behind his mother's leg but not cowering. Just observing.

A muscle in Esalyn's jaw twitches as she takes my measure. Her gaze travels from my horns to my boots and back, lingering on the scars visible at my throat, the weapons strapped across my body. Her fingers tighten on the boy's shoulder, pulling him fractionally closer.

"We should go," she murmurs to the child, but her eyes don't leave mine.

I step back, creating distance between us.

The market chaos is settling now, the drakehounds subdued, but the crowd still swirls around us.

She nods a wary thanks, lips pressed tight, and studies me like she's memorizing my face in case I'm another demon to be wary of.

The calculation in her eyes is unmistakable—sizing up potential threat, escape routes, whether thanks or flight serves her better.

I shrug it off and say nothing, my expression unreadable. No point in words. No point in prolonging this moment that's already stretched too thin between us. Better to disappear now, before she can ask questions I won't answer.

With a final glance at the boy, I turn and walk away, steps measured and unhurried.

The crowd parts around me—most humans in Velzaroth know better than to brush against a demon in passing.

I don't look back, but I feel her eyes on me as I disappear into the narrow alley that cuts between the fishmonger's stall and a boarded-up storefront.

The sensation of being watched lingers long after I've left the market square behind, tracking my way through Velzaroth's twisted streets and back to the sad excuse for a room I've rented.

The space is bare except for a pallet on the floor and my pack in the corner—nothing worth stealing, nothing worth keeping.

I strip off my weapons one by one, setting them within arm's reach, and stretch out on the thin mattress.

Outside, the sky darkens from blood-red to something deeper, and the city's night sounds rise—drunken shouts, stray animals snarling, the distant rhythm of drums from the tavern two streets over.

Sleep comes eventually, dragging me under despite my resistance.

And then the smoke finds me.

It always begins the same way: air thickening, turning gray around the edges. The dream-version of myself knows what's coming but can never change course. I'm running through narrow passages that twist and change, the walls bleeding shadow. Somewhere ahead, someone is screaming.

"Zevan!" My brother's name tears from my throat, raw and desperate. "Zevan!"

The passages open into a chamber I know too well, where fire crawls along the walls and ceiling. My brother kneels in the center, blood streaming from wounds I can't see clearly through the smoke. His gold eyes—the same shade as mine, as our father's—find me across the distance.

"Dom," he mouths, reaching out a hand streaked with ash and blood.

I lunge forward, fingers stretching toward his, but the distance between us grows with each step I take. The smoke thickens, coiling around my brother's form, obscuring him from view. His scream pierces through it all—high and terrified and abruptly cut short.

"No!" The word shreds my throat as I bolt upright, sheets tangled around my legs, sweat cooling on my skin.

My heart hammers against my ribs as reality seeps back in. The cramped room. Velzaroth. The job. The woman and her boy. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, willing the images away, but they cling like cobwebs.

Morning light filters weakly through the narrow window, revealing my clenched fists, knuckles white with strain. My head throbs with a dull, insistent pain that wraps from temple to temple.

Every night, the same dream. Every morning, the same hollow ache. Some part of me remains in that smoke-filled chamber, forever reaching for a hand I'll never grasp again.