Page 9

DOMNO

T he hours stretch like shadows beneath a setting sun now, each moment lingering a beat too long on my skin.

I'm still here, fifteen days after finding them.

Fifteen days of excuses I make to myself while watching Esalyn work her raw hands through piles of fish, fifteen days of catching the quiet smiles she reserves only for her son.

Fifteen days of failing to do the one thing I came to Velzaroth for.

I roll a small stone between my fingers—one of Erisen's castoffs, a dull gray pebble he deemed "too normal" compared to the colored ones I brought him.

It's smooth against the calluses of my palms, warmed by constant contact.

I should have left by now. Should have either taken the woman and collected my payment, or walked away from the contract entirely.

Instead, I find myself calculating the fishmonger's schedule, knowing Esalyn finishes her shift as the red sun hits the crooked tower in the western quarter.

I drift through back alleys and shadow-paths, timing my arrival to match her tired steps.

Not hunting her—not anymore—but orbiting her life like some tethered thing.

Today, I lean against the wall across from the fish stall, watching ash drift like snow across the square. Merchants pack their wares as the day fades. The scent of sulfur mingles with rotted fish, but somehow I've grown used to it.

Erisen spots me first, as always. His eyes light up, golden as a demon's but set in that soft human face. He waves with one small hand still stained with fish scales.

"Domno!" He breaks away from his mother's side, racing toward me with that peculiar fearlessness that tightens something in my chest.

I straighten from the wall, no longer bothering to pretend I'm here for any other reason. The boy reaches me, bouncing on his toes, excitement practically vibrating through his small frame.

"I found another one," he declares, fishing in his pocket. "Look."

He produces yet another pebble, this one with a vein of quartz running through its center—nothing special by any measure, but he holds it like treasure. I take it with care, examining it as seriously as I would examine a battle plan.

"Good eye," I tell him, passing it back. "Strong stone."

His smile widens, revealing the gap where he lost a tooth three days ago. He tucked it beneath his pillow after I told him an old demon superstition about teeth holding memories. I've never had children, never wanted them—but something about his trust burns through my defenses like acid.

Esalyn approaches more slowly, wiping her hands on her apron.

The constant work in brine has chapped her skin, leaving redness across her knuckles.

Her dark hair is tied back today, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

There's exhaustion in the shadows beneath her eyes, but wariness too—never completely faded, even after these weeks of cautious interaction.

"You're making a habit of this," she says, but there's no edge to her words. Just observation, perhaps a hint of amusement.

"Slow day," I reply with a shrug that dismisses the hours I spent helping unload timber at the eastern gate, just so I'd have reason to pass through this part of the market.

She doesn't believe me—I can see it in the slight narrowing of her eyes—but she doesn't challenge the lie either. Instead, she adjusts the worn sack slung over her shoulder, grimacing slightly. The seam has split, threatening to spill her meager purchases.

Without thinking, I reach for it. "Let me carry that."

She hesitates, that flicker of instinctive distrust crossing her features. Then, to my surprise, she hands it over.

"Still think I'll devour you both the moment you turn your backs?" I ask, keeping my tone neutral despite the unfamiliar weight of her trust in my hands.

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "No, but old habits die hard."

Erisen tugs at my free hand, fingers barely wrapping around two of mine. "Can we show him, Mama?"

Esalyn's expression softens when she looks at her son, though tension remains in the line of her shoulders. "Show him what?"

"The drawing I did. Of Whisper flying."

She hesitates, then nods. "I suppose—if Domno doesn't have somewhere else to be."

They both look at me, waiting. The woman with her guarded eyes and the boy with his open face. I could tell them I have business elsewhere. Should tell them that. Instead, I adjust the sack on my shoulder.

"Lead the way."

They live in a house—if it can be called that—that I'm shocked is still standing.

It looks like the wind might blow it over and I have to duck deeply to get inside, careful not to hit my head on the low ceilings.

The space is small but meticulously clean— a single bed pushed against one wall, a stone slab made into a table, a curtain partitioning off what must be their washing area, and a small worn rug in the center.

The wooden bird I carved sits on the windowsill beside a row of colored stones and dried flowers.

Erisen immediately digs through a box beneath the bed, producing a scrap of paper covered in charcoal marks. The drawing is childish but recognizable—a bird with outstretched wings soaring above what might be mountains or might be waves.

"Whisper's going on an adventure," he explains, holding it up. "To find his family."

I crouch to examine it properly, aware of Esalyn watching us both. "Good wingspan," I comment, pointing to the extended wings. "He'll fly far with those."

Erisen beams, then scrambles to show me other drawings—stick figures that he identifies as himself, his mother, the fishmonger, and a surprisingly recognizable rendering of me, horns and all, standing taller than the rest.

"Quite the artist," I tell him, and mean it. The boy has an eye for detail beyond his years.

"He gets it from his father," Esalyn says quietly.

It's the first time she's mentioned the boy's demon parent, and something in her tone raises the hair on my neck. There's history there, buried beneath her careful words. History I don't have the right to ask about.

But Erisen has no such restraint. "Did you know my father?" he asks me, eyes wide with sudden interest.

Esalyn stiffens beside me. I keep my expression neutral, shaking my head. "No," I answer honestly. "I don't know many other demons."

"But you're both from Reinmirth," he persists.

"It's a big place," I tell him. "Like saying all humans come from the same village."

He considers this with a seriousness that seems too heavy for his small shoulders. "Oh. Well, Mama says he was very powerful."

Esalyn's hand settles on his shoulder, a gentle but unmistakable warning. "That's enough questions, love. Why don't you put away your drawings while I make us some tea?"

The mention of tea surprises me. It's an invitation to stay, to linger in this small, clean space that smells of herbs and soap rather than the ever-present sulfur of Velzaroth's streets.

I should refuse. Should walk away before this strange orbit I've found myself in pulls me any closer to their lives. But when Esalyn glances at me, a silent question in her dark eyes, I find myself nodding.

"Tea would be good."

I return the next day, and the next, and the one after that. Seventeen days now. Eighteen. Nineteen. Each morning, I wake with the same thought: today is when I finish this. Today is when I either collect my bounty or walk away for good.

But I find myself at their door anyway, bearing small gifts that I tell myself mean nothing. A leather cord for Erisen to string his stones. A jar of salve for Esalyn's chapped hands, purchased from a traveling herbalist at twice its worth.

We sit at their small table tonight, where she has dragged in another crate for me, the lamplight casting long shadows against the walls.

Steam rises from cups of meadowmint tea, curling in the space between us like question marks.

Erisen chatters about his day, about the lunox he saw in the marketplace—"White as snow with a blue face, Domno!

And a tail this big!"—while his hands stretch wide to demonstrate.

In return, I offer little of myself, but I listen like it matters. My silence isn't cold anymore—it's careful, considerate. I watch him with a focus that once served me well in tracking targets but now feels like something else entirely.

"And then she let me pet it!" Erisen continues, practically bouncing in his chair. "Its fur was so soft, like the blanket Mama made, but warmer."

Esalyn laughs at his enthusiasm, a sound like water over stones—clear and unexpected in this ash-choked city.

The corners of her eyes crease, and for a moment, the weariness that typically clings to her features falls away.

I find myself watching her like the sound unsettles me, as though I forgot what joy sounded like.

Something shifts in me, an uncomfortable tightness that has no place there. I've spent years perfecting the art of remaining unmoved, untouched. Yet here I am, affected by a human woman's laugh.

"You'd like Reinmirth," I say to Erisen, the words escaping before I can catch them. "There are creatures there with fur softer than any lunox."

His golden eyes widen. "Really? Like what?"

I hesitate, suddenly aware of Esalyn's attention fixing on me. It's rare that I offer anything of my homeland, anything of myself beyond what's necessary for this strange arrangement we've found ourselves in.

"Kilmar," I answer finally. "Like great cats but with scales mixed in their fur. And thalivern—insects with wings like colored glass."

"Do you miss it?" Esalyn asks quietly. "Your home?"

The question catches me off guard. No one has asked me that in years—not since Zevan. My fingers tighten around the chipped mug, feeling the heat seep into my palms.

"Parts of it," I admit. "The thick forests. The black sand beaches. Not much else."

She studies me with those dark eyes that see too much. "What made you leave?"

I should deflect the question. Should steer the conversation back to safer waters. Instead, I find myself answering with a truth I rarely acknowledge.

"Nothing there worth staying for."

It's not the whole story—not even close—but it's more than I've given anyone in a long time. Esalyn seems to recognize this, nodding slightly before returning her attention to her tea.

Erisen, oblivious to the weight of the moment, tugs at my sleeve. "Would I like it? Since I'm part demon?"

The question hangs in the air, innocent yet loaded. Esalyn tenses, her fingers whitening around her mug. I keep my expression neutral despite the rage that flares at the implication of the boy's heritage—at what his mother must have endured.

"You might," I tell him carefully. "But it's not always kind to half-bloods." I glance at Esalyn, silently acknowledging what she already knows. "Or to humans."

She looks away, but not before I catch the shadow that crosses her face. There's history etched into her every movement, into the protective way she shifts toward her son.

I tell myself this is just a detour—just a pause before finishing the job—but the days keep passing, and I keep showing up.

Keep finding reasons to linger in this small room with its mismatched furniture and carefully mended curtains.

Keep allowing myself to be drawn into their orbit, against every instinct that has kept me alive all these years.

The bounty waits. Five hundred novas—enough to spend the rest of my life in comfortable numbness. But comfort has never been what I sought, and the numbness I've lived in for years seems to be falling away, replaced by something sharper, more dangerous.

Something like feeling.