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.
