He turns without waiting for a response, slipping through the crowd like smoke. I watch until he disappears through the tavern's warped doorway, only then allowing myself to exhale slowly through clenched teeth.
The bartender sets another drink before me without comment. This time, I don't hesitate. I drain it in one burning swallow, but the fire of cheap amerinth does nothing to drown the disgust twisting in my gut.
10
ESALYN
I'm cutting zynthra when I first notice it—the distinct pause in Erisen's humming from the doorway. Just a moment's hesitation before he abandons the tune altogether. When I glance over my shoulder, he's already halfway out the door, clutching his drawing to his chest like it might blow away in the perpetual ashen breeze.
"Stay where I can see you," I call after him, the words so familiar they might as well be carved into my tongue.
Erisen doesn't answer, but he doesn't go far. Just to the edge of the alley where our broken-down shack meets the wider street, his small frame silhouetted against the rusty light of Velzaroth's eternal dusk. His head pivots left, then right, scanning the crowds with an intensity that makes my chest tighten.
I know exactly who he's looking for.
The knife in my hand stills against the cutting board. I should call him back inside, continue our routine as if the demon hasn't carved himself a space in our lives. As if Erisen doesn't light up when he appears, as if my own pulse doesn't quicken at the sight of broad shoulders and calculating gold eyes.
Instead, I watch my son wait, hope making him stand straighter than any six-year-old should know how to stand.
"He's just a demon passing through," I'd told myself the first time Domno appeared, materializing like a shadow come to life in the market.
"Just curious about a half-blood child," I'd reasoned the second time, when he'd pulled Erisen to safety that day we first met.
"Just being kind," I'd thought the third time, when he presented my son with a carved wooden bird so delicate it seemed impossible it came from those scarred, battle-worn hands.
Now it's been three weeks, and I've run out of excuses.
Erisen bounces on his toes, impatience vibrating through his small body. The paper in his hands crinkles as he adjusts his grip, careful not to smudge the chalk illustration he spent all morning crafting. From here, I can make out splashes of red and green—another of his fantastical creatures born from a mind too gentle for this ash-choked city.
I should be terrified that my son waits so eagerly for a demon. After what Vorrak did to me—what he would do to Erisen if he found us—I should forbid any contact with Domno's kind.
But Domno isn't like Vorrak. That became clear the moment he knelt to meet my son's eyes as an equal, rather than looking down at him as a curiosity or possession.
The knife resumes its rhythm against the cutting board, the steady thunk-thunk-thunk matching my heartbeat. Outside, Erisen's posture changes, his spine straightening like a bowstring pulled taut. My gaze follows his, landing on the tall, dark figure appearing from the direction of the eastern quarter.
Domno moves like smoke through water—fluid yet substantial, each step deliberate despite his casual pace. Hislong black hair is tied back today, emphasizing the sharp planes of his face and the regal curve of his horns. Even dressed simply in a worn leather tunic and dark pants, he carries himself with a predator's confidence.
But it's not fear that flutters beneath my ribs as I watch him approach.
"DOMNO!" Erisen's voice rings out, high and clear against Velzaroth's constant background rumble of steam vents and distant machinery. He waves his drawing overhead like a flag, nearly bouncing in place.
I move to the doorway, drying my hands on my apron. Close enough to intervene if needed, but giving them space—this strange ritual that has somehow become part of our lives.
Domno's stern expression breaks at the sight of my son. It's subtle—just a softening around the eyes, a slight quirk of his mouth—but the transformation is startling. The dangerous hunter vanishes, replaced by something I don't have a name for.
"What's this?" he asks, his deep voice carrying to where I stand. He kneels in one fluid motion, bringing himself to Erisen's height—a gesture that makes my throat tighten inexplicably. Demons don't kneel. Not to anyone, certainly not to half-blood children.
Erisen thrusts the paper forward, words tumbling out in his excitement. "I drew monsters! But they're good monsters, not scary ones. This one"—he points to a spiky green blob—"is made of grass and sticks and protects the forest. And this one"—his finger moves to a swirl of red and orange—"is made of fire but he doesn't burn anything unless it's bad people."
Domno studies the drawing with the same intensity I've seen him assess potential threats in the market. His brow furrows slightly as he takes in every detail, treating my son's imagination with the seriousness of a battle plan.
"Strong creatures," he says after a moment, his rough voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "Good defenders. You gave the fire one clever eyes."
Erisen beams at the praise, his face lit with a joy so pure it makes my chest ache. "They're friends," he explains earnestly. "Like us."
Something flickers across Domno's face—too quick to read, but enough to make me wonder what ghosts he carries. Then he nods, a solemn agreement between equals.
"Like us," he affirms, and though the words are simple, they carry a weight I can feel even from where I stand.
