Page 7

ESALYN

I press Erisen to my side as we navigate the market, my fingers wrapped around his small shoulder with more force than necessary. He doesn't complain, though I catch him glancing up at me with those knowing eyes—too old for his six years, too aware of the danger that dogs our heels.

"Stay close," I murmur, scanning the crowd with practiced wariness.

Three days since the market incident. Three days of jumping at shadows, sleeping with my knife clutched in my fist, and checking our tiny room for signs of intrusion.

That demon—the one who pulled my son from danger—his face haunts me at odd moments.

Those gold eyes, sharp as blades but somehow not cruel.

The careful way he stepped back after returning Erisen to me, as if understanding my fear without taking offense.

It makes no sense. Demons don't help humans without reason, especially not in a place like Velzaroth where kindness is just another currency to be bartered.

"Mama, you're squishing me," Erisen whispers, squirming under my grip.

I loosen my hold slightly, offering him an apologetic smile that feels tight around the edges. "Sorry, love. Just stay where I can see you, alright?"

The marketplace is busier than usual today.

A merchant caravan arrived before dawn—we heard the commotion from our window—bringing goods from the western mountains.

Fresh vegetables, untainted by the ash that settles over everything in Velzaroth.

Spices that don't reek of sulfur. Clean water that doesn't need to be boiled twice before drinking.

We weave between the stalls, heading toward the fishmonger's where I still have work for another three hours.

Not my favorite job—the brine eats at my skin, leaving my hands raw and cracked—but it pays just enough to keep a roof over our heads and food in Erisen's belly.

The fishmonger doesn't ask questions, doesn't notice when I slip an occasional small fish into the deep pocket of my apron.

Something catches my attention at the edge of the square—a flash of movement, a familiar silhouette that makes my heart stutter.

The demon from the market stands beside a loaded wagon, his broad shoulders flexing as he lifts a crate that would take two human men to carry.

Even from this distance, he's unmistakable—taller than most, with those curved horns rising from his temples like a crown of darkness.

His long black hair is pulled back, revealing a face that seems carved from stone rather than flesh.

I pull Erisen closer, changing our course to avoid passing near him.

"Mama, look—it's him!" Erisen tugs against my hold, his voice bright with recognition.

"Hush," I warn, but it's too late.

The demon glances up at the sound, his gold eyes finding us unerringly in the crowd.

Something flickers across his face—not a smile, nothing so simple—before he gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Just acknowledgement, nothing more, as he sets down the crate and turns to take another from the merchant's cart.

With a start, I recognize the merchant—a round-faced, bearded human called Thedrin whose wagon I stowed away in two towns back, when Erisen had a fever and we needed to get out quickly.

He'd discovered us halfway through the journey and, instead of throwing us out, had given Erisen a blanket and a cup of hot broth.

Before I can process this connection, a small pebble drops from Erisen's pocket—one of the smooth stones he collects and carries everywhere. It bounces once on the uneven cobblestones before rolling toward the wagon.

"My lucky one!" Erisen cries, and before I can stop him, he's wriggled free from my grasp and darted into the open space between stalls.

"Erisen!" I hiss, lunging after him, but he's already halfway to the wagon, his small legs carrying him with surprising speed.

The demon stiffens when he sees my son approaching. I expect him to ignore the child, to turn away as most of his kind do when faced with humans they don't intend to frighten or feed from. Instead, he sets down the crate he's holding and crouches as Erisen reaches him.

My heart lodges in my throat as I close the distance, ready to snatch my son away at the first sign of danger. But what I see freezes me in place.

The demon has retrieved Erisen's stone from where it rolled against his boot. He holds it out on his palm—a massive hand that could easily crush the smooth pebble—as my son approaches. Erisen stops just short of touching him, suddenly shy in a way he rarely is.

"This yours?" the demon asks, his voice like gravel over velvet, low enough that I barely catch the words.

Erisen nods solemnly. "It's my good luck. Found it by the water."

The demon considers this with surprising seriousness, then extends his hand farther, offering the stone. "Better keep it close, then."

My son reaches out, his tiny fingers brushing against the demon's calloused palm as he retrieves his treasure. "Thank you," he says, with that disarming politeness he sometimes displays. "Are you staying in the city long?"

I finally regain my momentum, closing the last few steps between us. "Erisen," I say, my voice sharper than intended. "Come here."

But the demon's eyes have lifted to mine, and something in that golden gaze makes the words die in my throat. Not threat, not even interest—just a quiet assessment, as if he's reading something written on my skin that I can't see.

The demon's eyes linger on mine, gold as molten metal. I step between him and Erisen, resisting the primal urge to run. Demons can smell fear—everyone knows that. Predators recognize prey instinct, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

"We need to go," I say to Erisen, keeping my voice steady despite the rapid drumming of my heart. "Thank you for returning his stone."

The demon rises to his full height, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

He's massive—even for his kind—with shoulders that block the red-tinged sunlight filtering through Velzaroth's perpetual haze.

His gray skin bears the faint silvery tracings of scars, telling silent stories of battles survived.

"It was no trouble," he says, and there's something in his tone—a careful neutrality—that doesn't match what I know about demons. They're vicious, prideful creatures who view humans as little more than amusing vermin. This one speaks to me like I'm a person.

Erisen peers around my leg, clutching his recovered stone. "You helped me before. In the market."

My spine stiffens. I'd hoped he wouldn't remember that.

"I did," the demon acknowledges, his expression unchanging. He doesn't soften his features or stoop to appear less threatening as some might when addressing a child. He simply regards my son with the same steady attention he pays to everything—watchful, assessing.

"What's your name?" Erisen asks, and I nearly choke.

Gods above, this child. I've spent years teaching him to be invisible, to never draw attention, and here he is chatting up the most dangerous creature in the marketplace like they're neighbors meeting at a well.

The demon glances at me, as if checking whether I'll allow this conversation to continue. When I say nothing—frozen in indecision—he looks back at Erisen.

"Domno," he answers simply.

A real name, not the half-growled threats most demons offer when forced to identify themselves. It sits oddly in the air between us, this small piece of truth.

"I'm Erisen," my son replies, and I feel cold wash through my veins. Names have power. Names can be tracked.

I grab Erisen's shoulder. "That's enough. We're late."

Erisen's brow furrows in that stubborn way that means he's about to argue, but Domno speaks first.

"Your mother's right." His voice remains that same neutral rumble, but I catch something else there—not command, not quite, but certainty. "Markets aren't safe places to linger."

"Is that why you pulled me away from that fight?" Erisen asks, undeterred.

The corner of Domno's mouth twitches—not a smile, but something adjacent to it. "Sharp memory, little one."

"Thank you for that," I hear myself say, the words escaping before I can catch them. "For helping him then."

Domno nods once, a gesture that seems deliberate, measured. "Children shouldn't pay for the chaos of others."

From another demon, I'd assume these words masked some darker intent—that he was playing with us before revealing his true purpose. But there's no artifice in his expression, no hungry gleam in his eyes. Just that steady, watchful gaze that seems to see more than I want exposed.

"You're not from Velzaroth," I say, another observation that slips out unbidden.

"No." He doesn't elaborate, doesn't ask how I know. Perhaps it's obvious—his accent carries the harsh consonants of central Ikoth. Where I ran from.

Erisen picks this moment to step fully from behind me, clutching his stone. "Are you staying?"

"Erisen," I warn, finally finding my footing in this bizarre exchange. "We need to go. Now."

Domno shifts his weight, his massive frame suddenly more angled away from us—giving space rather than taking it. "Listen to your mother," he tells my son, then looks at me. "Safe travels."

With that, he turns back to the merchant wagon, lifting another crate as if our conversation never happened.

I pull Erisen away, moving through the market with renewed urgency, my mind churning. That brief exchange has left me feeling exposed, like someone peeled back my skin to examine what lies beneath. There was none of the casual cruelty I've come to expect from demons. No threats. No intimidation.

Just those eyes, seeing too much.

"He's nice," Erisen whispers as we turn down the alley leading to the fishmonger's stall.

"No," I correct him sharply. "He's not nice. He's dangerous. All demons are dangerous, Erisen. You know that."