The wind shifts, bringing with it the sulfurous scent of the city below. Ash drifts between us, settling on our shoulders like gray snow. My horns ache suddenly, a phantom pain that always accompanies thoughts of Zevan.
"I was supposed to protect him. That's what older brothers do." The bitterness in my voice surprises me. "But I failed."
Esalyn sets the bottle down, her movements deliberate and quiet. Her profile in the dim light shows no judgment, just attentiveness that somehow loosens something long-knotted inside me.
"We were working together, nothing too dangerous. Or so I thought." I avoid telling her we were tracking a bounty as I stare at my scarred hands, seeing instead Zevan's slender fingers, better suited to holding books than weapons. "It was a trap."
The wind picks up, rattling loose boards beneath us. Memory floods back—the copper smell of blood, Zevan's gold eyes wide with shock. He was much too young to be out with me like that, and sometimes in my memories, I don't picture him on the cusp of adulthood as he was. I see him as the child I should have protected.
"Seven against two. We fought back to back. He was... magnificent." Pride and pain twist together in my chest. "Until a blade caught him from behind. Just below the ribs." My finger taps unconsciously against my own side, marking the spot. "I was fighting and it wasn't until it was much too late that I realized he had collapsed in a room that was on fire. I couldn't reach him in time."
I don't tell her how I watched him die as my skin blistered, as I tried to rip through the burning walls as they collapsed, or how Zevan watched me, blood bubbling between lips that kept trying to reassureme. How his last act was to tell me it wasn't my fault. The cruelest mercy.
"I buried him in the red sands of Ikoth's northern shore," I say instead. "Where we used to swim as children. Then I hunted down everyone involved. One by one."
I feel Esalyn's gaze but don't meet it. Fear of what I might see—disgust, perhaps, at the cold violence in my voice. Or worse, pity.
"After that..." I shrug, a gesture meant to dismiss the weight still pressing against my chest. "I forgot how to live. I worked to survive, mostly to drink until I could forget. And every day doesn't feel right without him."
The confession hangs between us, stark and unadorned. I've offered no justifications, no softening of truths. She knows what I am now—a killer hollowed out by grief, a demon who couldn't save the one person who mattered.
She surprises me by shifting closer, not touching, but near enough that I can feel the warmth of her—a living counterpoint to the cold emptiness I've carried for years.
"Thank you," she says simply.
I finally look at her, confused by the sincerity in those two words. "For what?"
"For not saying it gets better." Her eyes, hazel flecked with gold, hold mine without flinching. "For not trying to fix me with pretty words."
Something shifts between us—understanding taking root in barren soil. We sit side by side, her scars invisible beneath worn clothing, mine etched into gray skin for anyone to see. Two broken things that recognize each other's jagged edges.
"Does Erisen know?" I ask finally. "About his father?"
She shakes her head. "He knows we're running. That his father is a demon but we don't trust demons. That people might want to hurt us. But not why." Her voice drops lower. "How do you tell a child something like that?"
I have no answer. The silence stretches between us, but it's different now—not filled with wariness but with something like recognition. Neither of us tries to mend the other's wounds or offer hollow reassurances. We simply exist together in this moment, two survivors carrying their respective ghosts.
13
DOMNO
Over the next few days, a strange peace settles over us. It's fragile as spun glass, but I find myself clinging to it with a desperation that should alarm me. Each morning, I wait at the edge of the marketplace where Esalyn works, pretending not to watch as she stacks fruit at her employer's stall, her deft hands arranging them with practiced care. Her movements are economical—never wasted, never drawing attention—and I recognize the instincts of prey that's been hunted too long.
Erisen is always with her, his small face brightening when he spots me in the shadows. I've learned to carry oddities in my pockets for him—smooth stones with unusual markings, a discarded gear from a clockmaker's shop that catches the light, bits of colored glass tumbled soft by the sea. His wonder at these worthless treasures stirs something long dormant in my chest.
"Look what Domno found today!" he'll announce to his mother, gold eyes wide with excitement. She smiles then—a real smile that reaches her eyes—and for a moment, the weight she carries seems lighter.
I find myself falling into uncharacteristic habits: helping elderly vendors move their heavy crates, fixing a loose stall doorthat's threatened to collapse for months, scaring off the bolder thieves with nothing more than a glare. The locals have begun to nod at me instead of scurrying away. My reputation remains intact—no one dares approach directly—but there's a subtle shift in how they regard the demon in their midst. I started for money—since I'm not earning any as a hunter—then to be close to Esalyn and now…it's just who I am to these people.
Evenings find us in Esalyn's cramped dwelling, eating simple meals that somehow taste better than anything I've consumed in years. The table wobbles unless I brace it with my knee. The roof leaks when it rains. Yet sitting across from Esalyn while Erisen chatters between us feels more like home than anywhere I've ever been.
Tonight, the air hangs heavy with approaching rain. The three of us sit cross-legged on the worn rug as Erisen demonstrates his impressive collection of treasures. His small hands carefully sort stones, buttons, and bits of colored thread with the seriousness of a scholar organizing ancient texts.
"This one," he declares, holding up a pebble with a natural pattern resembling a spiral, "is the most special. It helps me sleep."
"Does it?" I ask, voice gruffer than intended. The vulnerability of his confession catches me off-guard.
He nods solemnly. "I put it under my pillow when the bad dreams come."
