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 Domnokeeps 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.
8
DOMNO
The 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.
