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But even as I say it, I find myself glancing back toward where we left him, a sensation like fingertips trailing down my spine. There was something in Domno's presence—a controlled power, a careful restraint—that doesn't fit with everything I've been taught to fear.

And that makes him more dangerous than most.

Two days later, I'm unloading a crate of brine-soaked krazee fish when I feel it—that distinct prickle along my spine that warns of eyes on me. I place the slippery catch on the fishmonger's counter, wiping my raw hands against my apron before glancing over my shoulder.

Domno stands at the edge of the square, a dark silhouette against the ashen sky.

Unlike before, he makes no pretense of other business.

He simply watches, those gold eyes tracking movement around him while somehow remaining fixed on where Erisen sits on an upturned barrel, sorting through a pile of fish bones for ones thin enough to use as needles in the small repair kit I keep tucked in my boot.

My muscles tense automatically. Predator in sight. Grab the child. Run.

But Erisen spots him first, his small face lighting with a surprised delight that makes my heart twist. Before I can call out, my son has slipped from his perch and scampered halfway across the open space.

"Mama, look who's here!"

The old fishmonger, a grizzled woman with skin like tanned leather, flicks her eyes toward me. "Your boy's got peculiar taste in friends," she mutters before returning to her gutting knife.

I wipe my hands again and hurry after Erisen, trying to shake the tremor that's settled in my fingertips. Domno hasn't moved, hasn't tried to approach my son. He stands like he's been carved from the volcanic stone that forms Velzaroth's bones, waiting for us to decide the distance.

As I reach them, I see he's holding something cupped in one large hand.

"Show Mama," Erisen is saying, balanced on his tiptoes trying to peer into Domno's palm. "They're magic stones."

Domno's eyes flick to mine, unreadable as ever. "Not magic," he corrects, voice pitched low. "Just not from around here."

He uncurls his fingers, revealing a handful of smooth, polished stones that glimmer with colors I've never seen in Velzaroth's dull, ash-coated landscape—blues like a clear sky, greens deeper than forest shadows, one that seems to shift between purple and gold depending on how the light catches it.

Erisen gasps, reaching out but stopping just short of touching them. "Where did they come from?"

"The southern shores of Ikoth," Domno answers, as if sharing geography lessons with a six-year-old human child is perfectly normal behavior for a demon. "The water there is clear enough to see through to the bottom."

I study his face, searching for the hidden motive behind this small kindness.

His features remain impassive, dark brows drawn slightly together in what might be concentration or wariness.

The sharp angles of his jawline and cheekbones catch the dull light of Velzaroth's crimson sun, highlighting old scars that whisper of violence.

"You can have them," he says to Erisen, tilting his hand so the stones slide closer to the edge of his palm. "If your mother agrees."

It surprises me—this deference, this acknowledgment of my authority over what my son receives. Most demons would simply do as they pleased, especially with something so trivial.

"Please, Mama?" Erisen looks up at me, eyes wide and hopeful in a way I see too rarely these days.

I hesitate, searching Domno's face again. "Why?"

He doesn't pretend to misunderstand my question. "They're just stones," he says simply. "The boy likes them. I have no use for them."

It's so practical, so straightforward, that I find myself nodding before I can think better of it.

Erisen cups his hands beneath Domno's, and the demon tips the small treasures into my son's waiting palms. The soft clink of stone against stone sounds impossibly loud in the space between us, and Erisen's face glows with wonder.

"Thank you," he breathes, already sorting through them, examining each one with careful fingers.

Domno straightens, nods once in my direction, and turns to leave—just like that. No demands, no lingering, no attempts to ingratiate himself further.

"Wait," I call, fumbling in the small pouch tied at my waist where I keep the few lummi we have to spare. "Let me?—"

"No." The word is firm but not harsh. He doesn't even turn fully back to me, just angles his head so I can see the sharp profile of his face. "They cost me nothing."

And then he strides away, moving through the crowd with that predator's grace that parts the flow of bodies without seeming to try. His dark hair swings against his back, tied with a strip of leather at the nape of his neck.

Erisen doesn't even notice his departure, too absorbed in his new treasures. I watch the demon's retreating form until he disappears around a corner, my thoughts a tangle I don't care to unravel.

Over the next week, Domno appears in the marketplace like a recurring dream—sometimes expected, sometimes a surprise that steals my breath.

I spot him helping Thedrin unload sacks of grain that the merchant's aging back couldn't manage alone.

Another day, he directs a lost traveler through a shortcut in the winding alleys that even I didn't know existed.

Each time, he acknowledges me with that same subtle nod, never approaching unless Erisen spots him first and rushes over with his peculiar lack of self-preservation.

He asks nothing of me—not my name, though he must know it from Erisen's chatter, not my story, not my body.

He simply exists in our periphery, a shadow that doesn't threaten to swallow us whole.

I tell myself not to trust it. Demons are patient hunters. Whatever game he's playing, I won't be the prize.

But then comes the wooden bird.

The wooden bird sits in the palm of Erisen's hand like something alive, almost warm against his skin.

It's small enough to fit in his pocket but carved with such intricate detail that I can make out individual feathers along its wings—a Black Pitter, unmistakable with its sleek silhouette poised for flight.

"It'll bring you luck," Domno explains, his low voice oddly gentle as he crouches to Erisen's level. Sunlight catches on his horns, casting twin shadows across his face. "Better than stones. Birds always find their way home."

My son's fingers close around the gift with reverent care. "Did you make it?"

Domno nods, a single dip of his chin that seems to cost him something. There's no pride in the gesture, just acknowledgment.

I stand a few paces away, arms crossed over my chest, fingers digging into my biceps.

Something sweet and ugly curls through my ribcage—a feeling I can't name.

It's not quite jealousy, not quite fear, but a tangled knot of both.

This demon with his scarred hands and golden eyes, crafting something delicate for my child.

This predator, taking time to whittle wood into the shape of freedom.

It doesn't fit the stories. It doesn't match the warnings whispered in dark corners about what demons do to humans who trust too easily.

"Look, Mama!" Erisen rushes to me, bird balanced on his palm like an offering. "It's just like the ones that nest above the market!"

I touch it carefully, running my fingertip along the smooth curve of its back. The craftsmanship is exquisite—not roughly hewn as I might expect from those massive hands, but refined, patient. Hours of work in each tiny detail.

"It's beautiful," I admit, the words rough around the edges.

Domno rises to his full height, towering over both of us. His expression remains inscrutable, but something flickers in those golden eyes when they meet mine—a question, perhaps, or recognition.

"Thank you," I add, the gratitude catching in my throat.

He shrugs one broad shoulder, the movement rippling across muscles honed by violence. "He said he likes birds."

So simple. As if it explains everything.

Erisen clutches the carving to his chest, beaming up at Domno with unguarded affection that makes my heart lurch. "I'm going to name him Whisper," he decides. "Because he's quiet like you."

A shadow of something that might be amusement crosses Domno's face, softening the hard angles for just a moment. "Good name."

Later that night, as I tuck Erisen into our narrow bed, the carved bird rests on the windowsill where he can see it from his pillow. He's been holding it all day, showing it to the baker's apprentice, the old woman who sells ribbons, anyone who would stop to admire it.

"Domno says birds carry messages between demons," he tells me, eyes heavy with approaching sleep. "They're important."

I smooth back his dark hair, carefully avoiding the small horns that grow at his temples—a stark reminder of his heritage, of why we run, of what waits if we're caught. "Is that so?"

Erisen nods against the pillow. "He doesn't smile much, but he's nice, Mama. I can tell."

I want to correct him, to remind him that "nice" is a dangerous assumption when it comes to demons. But the words won't come. Instead, I find myself thinking of those golden eyes, watching us with something that isn't hunger or cruelty or any of the things I've learned to expect.

"Sleep now," I whisper, pressing my lips to his forehead.

When his breathing deepens into slumber, I pick up the wooden bird, turning it over in my hands. The craftsmanship is even more impressive in the soft lamplight—each feather distinct, the curve of the beak perfect, the eyes somehow capturing alertness despite being simple indentations in the wood.

What kind of demon takes the time to create something this delicate? What kind of predator offers gifts with no apparent strings attached?

The next morning, I make a decision I know I might regret.

When Erisen asks if we can visit the south market where Domno sometimes helps the spice merchant unload his wares, I don't refuse.

When my son's face lights up at the sight of gray skin and curved horns among the crowd, I don't pull him back to my side.

I watch them—the massive demon with battle scars etched across his skin and my small son with his collection of treasured pebbles and carved bird.

Erisen chatters away, fearless in a way that makes my throat tighten, and Domno listens with that same grave attention he gives everything, occasionally offering a word or two in response.

They're an impossible pair, these two. The demon who should terrify us and the child who refuses to be afraid.

And I, against every instinct honed by years on the run, find myself allowing this strange connection to grow.

Not out of trust—never that—but because something in the careful way Domno keeps his distance, in the gentle handling of that wooden bird, in the solemn attention he pays to my son's rambling stories, doesn't match the monsters I've fled all these years.

I tell myself it's for Erisen's sake, this small freedom I permit. The flicker of joy in his eyes is worth the risk.

But later, when Domno's gaze shifts to mine over my son's head and something unspoken passes between us—recognition, perhaps, or understanding—I feel a tremor run through me that has nothing to do with fear.