Domno stands nearby, hands loose at his sides, watchful but giving us space. When our eyes meet over Erisen's head, something electric passes between us—the shared memory of last night, the uncertain promise of what might come next.
How strange that watching him with my son has undone me more thoroughly than his kiss—though that wrecked me, too. That seeing this lethal demon treat Erisen with such gentle care makes me want things I've denied myself for years.
15
DOMNO
I've started counting days. Three since she let Erisen start to spend more time alone with me. Four since I first tasted her. Six since I told her something that I never share with anyone. The numbers tick upward in my mind like a countdown moving in reverse—each one bringing me closer to something I can't allow myself to name.
Today, I wait outside their small home as the sun crests the eastern hills, casting Velzaroth in that peculiar crimson light that makes every shadow look like spilled blood. The heat's already rising from the stone streets, promising another scorching day. I've brought a small basket of fresh zynthra and quillnash from the morning market—the bright vegetables an excuse for my presence that grows flimsier by the day.
I don't need excuses anymore. But old habits die harder than most men I've hunted.
The door creaks open, and Erisen bolts out like he's been waiting with his ear pressed to the wood. Maybe he has. His small face lights up when he sees me, golden eyes—so like mine—gleaming with an innocent joy I'd forgotten existed in this ash-choked world.
"Domno!" He launches himself at me, and I catch him without thinking, letting him scramble onto my shoulders where he's taken to perching. His weight is nothing, but the trust in the gesture still staggers me. "Are we still going to the tide pools?"
"If your mother says it's alright." My voice comes out gruffer than intended. Even after these days together, gentleness doesn't slide off my tongue easily.
Esalyn appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a worn cloth. The morning light catches in her dark hair, picking out threads of gold I've only noticed in these quiet moments. There's caution in her posture—there always is—but something else too. A soft awareness that wasn't there before.
"The tide pools?" She raises an eyebrow. "That's quite a walk for little legs."
"I can walk far!" Erisen protests from his perch. "I'm strong like Domno."
The corner of her mouth twitches upward, and the sight sends a rush of heat through my chest that has nothing to do with the climbing temperature. "Is that so?"
"He won't have to walk much," I say, settling the basket on her rickety table. "I can carry him when he tires."
Her eyes meet mine, holding for a moment longer than necessary. In that silent exchange is a world of unspoken things—trust tentatively offered, boundaries carefully respected, the memory of her mouth under mine when darkness gives us courage.
"Alright," she concedes. "But be back before sundown. The streets aren't safe after dark."
"Neither am I," I remind her, the words escaping before I can stop them.
Something flashes in her eyes—not fear, but awareness. "That's rather the point."
She packs a small bundle for Erisen—extra water, a piece of cloth in case he gets wet. Her movements are efficient, practiced from years of preparing for quick departures. I've seen how she keeps their few possessions organized, ready to grab at a moment's notice. How the boy knows to stay quiet when strangers approach. The vigilance of prey that's been hunted too long.
It's familiar. I recognize it from my own life.
"Come back for dinner," she says as we prepare to leave. An invitation, not a demand. Another small step across the chasm between us.
The tide pools lie on the far western shore where volcanic rock has created natural basins that fill and empty with the rhythms of the crimson sea. Erisen chatters the entire journey, asking questions about everything from the batlaz that stalk the night markets to whether demons can fly. I answer each one truthfully, something shifting in my chest when he accepts my words without the suspicion most would show.
"Why are your scars different colors?" he asks suddenly, small finger pointing to the marks visible above my collar.
I consider lying, or deflecting. But deception feels wrong with him. "The silver ones are from demon blades. The darker ones from other weapons."
"Does it hurt?"
"Not anymore."
He contemplates this with surprising gravity for a child his age. "Mama says the same thing about her scars."
My jaw tightens. I've seen glimpses of those marks when her sleeve slips, thin white lines that speak of systematic cruelty. Thinking of Vorrak's hands on her makes violence rise in me with frightening ease.
"Some scars heal better than others," I tell him. "But they all tell stories of survival."
