I should interrupt. Should call Erisen inside, thank the demon for his time and establish boundaries that have already been trampled beyond recognition. Instead, I lean against the doorframe and watch as my son launches into another story about his imaginary guardians, hands gesturing wildly in the air.
Domno listens with unwavering attention, nodding at appropriate moments, occasionally asking questions that set Erisen off on new tangents. There's an ease between them that defies explanation—as if they've known each other for years instead of weeks.
And as the story unfolds, I find myself watching Domno's face more than my son's. The subtle shifts in his expression as he responds to Erisen—amusement, interest, something almost like tenderness—reveal glimpses of a man beneath the demon's carefully constructed armor.
When he smiles—really smiles, not the calculated expressions he offers in the marketplace—it transforms his entire face. The hard angles soften, the ever-present vigilance in his eyes gives way to something warmer, and for a moment, I glimpse someone who might have existed before whatever battles carved those scars into his skin.
That smile creates an ache deep in my chest, a yearning I don't dare name.
A breeze stirs, carrying the metallic tang that always hangs in Velzaroth's air. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, watching as Erisen's small hand traces invisible patterns across Domno's leather glove. The demon doesn't pull away. Doesn't tense. Doesn't snap that a half-blood child shouldn't touch him.
"This river goes all the way to the ocean," Erisen explains, his finger drawing a winding path across Domno's palm. "And the treasure is here, under the big tree that talks."
"Clever hiding place," Domno replies, the rumble of his voice carrying across the small space between us. "Talking trees make good guards."
My son grins up at him, gold flecks in his dark eyes catching light just like Domno's—a demon trait that sends fear through me every time a stranger looks too closely. But Domno's gaze holds no disgust, no calculation, only a patient attentiveness that makes my chest tight.
I should end this now. Thank him for his kindness and send him on his way. Kindness from a demon always has a price—this lesson is etched into my skin, into six years of running, into nights I still wake gasping from memories of Vorrak's "generosity."
Yet something in Domno's demeanor makes the warning stick in my throat. The careful way he positions himself, always making sure I can see his hands. The space he maintains between us, never crowding or using his height to intimidate. The respect—actual respect—with which he addresses me, as though I'm more than a human woman with nothing to offer.
He looks up, catching me watching them. For a heartbeat, those gold eyes meet mine, something unspoken passing between us before I look away.
"We don't owe him anything," I remind myself, gripping the doorframe harder. His occasional protection in the market, the wooden bird that now sits on our windowsill, the small pouch of healing herbs he'd silently left last week when Erisen had a cough—none of it creates a debt. I won't allow it to.
"Mom, Domno knows about the northern mountains!" Erisen's voice breaks through my thoughts. "He's been there!"
I focus on them again. My son has somehow migrated into the circle of Domno's crossed legs, looking up at him with undisguised admiration. The demon sits perfectly still, as if afraid any movement might startle the child now leaning trustingly against his knee.
"The Ridge," Domno corrects gently. "Treacherous for those who don't know its paths."
"Have you climbed the highest peak?" Erisen asks, eyes wide.
Something passes over Domno's face—a shadow of memory, perhaps pain—before he shakes his head. "Not the highest. I hunted through the middle passes."
The word "hunted" sends a chill up my spine, a stark reminder of what he is. A demon bounty hunter. A killer for hire. The stories they whisper about him in the market—they can't all be lies.
Yet here he sits, cross-legged in the dirt outside our broken-down shelter, letting my six-year-old son map imaginary rivers across his battle-scarred hands.
"You'll come tomorrow too?" Erisen asks suddenly, looking up with such naked hope that I have to press my lips together to keep from intervening.
Domno's eyes flick to mine, questioning. Asking permission in a way Vorrak never did, in a way I'd never expected from a demon.
I should say no. Should establish boundaries that have been blurring since the first day he appeared. Instead, I find myselfgiving a small nod, something foreign and warm unfurling in my chest when the tension in his shoulders eases.
"If your mother has no objection," he tells Erisen, his deep voice careful.
My son turns to me, eyebrows raised in silent pleading. For a moment, I see his future stretching before him—a life of hiding, of never having friends, of learning too young that trust is a luxury we can't afford.
"You can come," I say, the words feeling like both surrender and defiance.
The smile that breaks across Erisen's face is worth whatever risk I've just taken. Even Domno looks momentarily surprised, a flash of something almost vulnerable crossing his features before his composure returns.
This is fine, I tell myself. We can be friendly. Just that. Nothing more. Nothing closer. I've learned the cost of getting too close, especially to demons.
But as Erisen curls closer to Domno's side, continuing his story about treasure and talking trees, and as Domno listens with that steady, unwavering attention, I can't deny the quiet voice inside me wondering if perhaps this demon is different.
I've been wrong before. Catastrophically wrong. But watching them together—my son's animated gestures and Domno's gentle responses—makes me contemplate what it might mean to be right this time.
