Just friendly, I repeat to myself. Nothing more.
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
11
ESALYN
It starts as a whisper. Then a ritual. Then something I can't name.
"Will Domno come today?" Erisen asks every morning, hope bright in his golden eyes. The question always hangs in the space between us while I brush his hair carefully over the tiny horns emerging at his temples.
"Perhaps," I answer, though I already know.
Domno appears like clockwork—sometimes with trinkets for Erisen, sometimes with herbs or vegetables I couldn't otherwise afford, and always with that guarded vigilance that both unnerves and comforts me. He never announces these gifts, simply sets them down without ceremony, as if embarrassed by his own generosity.
Today, he walks us back from the market, keeping pace beside me while Erisen darts ahead, chasing shadows with the stick Domno carved for him. I catch myself watching the demon's profile for the third time in as many minutes—the sharp line of his jaw, the way the fading light catches on his horns, the careful sweep of his gold eyes as they constantly scan our surroundings.
"Something wrong?" he asks without looking at me, voice low.
Heat creeps up my neck. "No."
But there is something wrong. I'm noticing things I shouldn't: the breadth of his shoulders beneath his worn leather jacket, the graceful economy of his movements, the way his rough voice softens when he speaks to Erisen. Signs of danger, all of them—evidence that my hard-won walls are developing cracks.
Erisen squeals ahead of us, having discovered a thalivern fluttering near a steam vent. The creature's four iridescent wings catch the ruddy light, momentarily transfixing my son.
"Look! Domno, Mama, look!"
When I glance up at the demon beside me, I find him already watching my son, alert to potential threats yet allowing this small moment of wonder. His hand rests casually near the blade at his hip—a position I've realized is as natural to him as breathing. Not threatening but ready.
The familiar tangle of fear and something warmer twists in my chest.
"He's remarkably observant," Domno comments as we resume walking. "Most children overlook thaliverns—too small, too common."
"He notices everything," I say, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "Sometimes I think he sees more than I do."
Domno's mouth quirks in what might be a smile. "He certainly saw something in me."
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning I'm not ready to unpack. Instead, I focus on Erisen, now carefully tracing patterns in the ash that perpetually dusts Velzaroth's streets.
"Thank you," I say abruptly. "For the herbs. The fever tea helped."
Domno doesn't look at me, but I see tension ease from his shoulders. "Chest congestion can turn dangerous quickly here."
His words are clinical, but I hear the concern beneath them. It's this dichotomy that confuses me most—the brutal efficiency in his movements contradicted by the gentleness he shows my son. The legendary bounty hunter who kneels to examine a child's drawings.
We reach our shack just as the wind picks up, carrying the metallic taste that warns of a fire-storm brewing in the volcanic peaks. Domno glances skyward, nostrils flaring.
"Bad one coming," he says, voice tight.
"Domno, stay for dinner!" Erisen calls, tugging at the demon's hand. "Please? Mom makes dreelk stew when the fire-winds come."
I should say no. Should maintain the distances I've carefully cultivated. But the darkening sky and the way Erisen's small fingers curl around Domno's massive hand stops the refusal in my throat.
Domno looks to me, waiting. Always waiting for my permission, never assuming, never pushing.
"We have enough," I find myself saying. Because Domno has been helping supply us.
His expression remains neutral, but something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps gratitude. "I'll bring meat," he says simply, and disappears into the deepening gloom only to return twenty minutes later with fresh tuskram cuts that must have cost more nodals than I see in a month.
