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 watchhim 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."
