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."
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.
