"He'll kill you for this," I manage finally.
The corner of her mouth lifts in a bitter half-smile. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I'll be far from here before he discovers what I've done." She presses something into my palm—a small pouch that clinks with coins. "I've taken my payment from his coffers. Consider this yours as well."
The carriage stops in a narrow side street, and she helps me down, her touch careful around my still-healing body. For a moment, we stand facing each other—two women whose lives intersected briefly in the darkness of Vorrak's household.
"Go," she whispers. "And don't look back."
I clutch Erisen tighter and slip away into the shadows between buildings.
The market district teems with life despite the late hour. The wretched city never truly sleeps—the perpetual red glow from the calderas makes day and night indistinguishable, and desperation keeps commerce flowing. I move with my head down, just another shadow among many, searching for a way out.
An alley offers temporary shelter. I press my back against the cold stone, trying to calm my racing heart while scanning the street beyond. Merchants hawk wares beneath stained canopies. Dock workers trudge past with shoulders hunched against the constant drizzle of ash. Two city watchmen stand at the corner, their eyes tracking anyone who might be carrying something worth taking.
The wind shifts, bringing a rush of sulfuric fumes that burn my throat. Erisen stirs against me, his tiny face scrunching in discomfort. A small whimper escapes his lips.
"Shh," I plead, rocking him instinctively. "Please, little one." My voice cracks with desperation.
His eyes flutter—those golden eyes that mark him as different, as dangerous to us both—and his mouth opens in preparation for a cry that will draw every eye in the market.
I slip my finger into his mouth, letting him suckle for comfort while I scan the street with increasing urgency. We can't stay here. Each second brings us closer to discovery, to Vorrak's men finding us, to being dragged back to that obsidian fortress.
That's when I see it—a merchant wagon loaded with crates and equipment, covered with torn tarps that flap like wounded birds in the acrid breeze. The driver, a burly man with skin like tanned leather, is engaged in a heated negotiation with a butcher. Their voices rise above the market's din as they haggle over the price of what looks like tuskram flanks.
"Highway robbery!" the wagon driver shouts, slamming his fist on the butcher's counter. "You think I crawled out of the calderas yesterday?"
The butcher responds with equal fervor, drawing the attention of nearby merchants and patrons.
This is our chance.
I wait until their argument reaches a crescendo, then slip from the alley. My body protests each step, pain flaring through my abdomen like hot pokers. The torn stitches from Erisen's birth pull and sting beneath my clothes, but I force myself forward, one shuffling step after another.
The back of the wagon sits unattended, its contents secured with fraying rope. I reach it just as Erisen begins to fuss again, his tiny hands curling into fists against my chest.
"Just a moment more," I whisper, kissing his forehead through the cloth.
With strength I didn't know I possessed, I grasp the wagon's edge and pull myself up, biting my lip until I taste blood to keep from crying out. My raw hands burn against the rough wood, but I manage to roll myself and Erisen into the narrow space between two crates. I pull a torn tarp over us, breathing through the musty smell of whatever this merchant transports.
Moments later, the wagon rocks as the driver climbs onto his seat, still muttering curses about the butcher's parentage. A whip cracks, and the zarryn pulling the wagon snort their displeasure before lurching forward.
I curl around Erisen, shielding his small body from the jostling ride. Each bump sends daggers of pain through my healing wounds, but I welcome it. Pain means we're still moving. Pain means we're getting further from Vorrak with every turn of the wheels.
"We're going to be okay," I whisper to my son, though I have no right to make such promises. I stroke his cheek, marveling at the softness of his skin. "We're going to find somewhere safe."
2
DOMNO
PRESENT
The Bleeding Heart tavern smells like stale wine and old secrets, its tables cluttered with mercenaries nursing grudges alongside their drinks. Every shadow holds a weapon, every laugh conceals a threat. The kind of place where violence is just another item on the menu.
I sit alone in the darkest corner, hood drawn low over my eyes, scanning the room through the rim of my chipped clay mug. The amerinth burns a path down my throat, its purple liquid glinting in the sputtering lamplight. Too sweet for my taste, but it does the job when sleep won't come.
My fingers absently trace the hilt of my blade—an old habit from years of watching my back. The familiar weight of it against my hip is more comforting than any drink.
The door creaks open, letting in a blast of cold night air that makes the flames dance. A courier steps inside, all wide eyes and nervous energy. He's dressed too clean for this place, his shoes barely scuffed. A messenger pigeon among batlaz.
The tavern goes quiet for three heartbeats before returning to its steady hum of threats and bargains. I know what's coming before the barkeeper points in my direction.
