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.
