When we reach the tide pools, Erisen's delight is immediate and infectious. He kneels at the edge of each basin, marveling at the miniature worlds contained within. Small, colorful creatures dart between crevices. Tiny silver fish flash like liquid metal. His childish wonder at these simple things loosens something knotted inside me.
I sit on a sun-warmed rock, watching him explore. My eyes scan the horizon reflexively, tracking movement, assessing threats, planning escape routes. The habits of a lifetime don't fade in two weeks.
"Look!" Erisen holds up a spiraling shell, its surface pearlescent in the sunlight. "It's even prettier than the last one!"
"A good find," I agree, accepting it when he places it solemnly in my palm. "Your collection grows impressive."
"It's our collection," he corrects, absolute certainty in his voice. "Yours and mine and Mama's."
The simple inclusion scrapes against my heart like a blade. Our collection. As though I've always been part of their small unit, as though I belong there. As though I'm not hunting them still, according to every contract I've signed.
The nights have become both salvation and torment. After Erisen sleeps, Esalyn and I sit outside beneath stars partly obscured by Velzaroth's perpetual haze. We talk in low voices about nothing important—the day's events, Erisen's latest discoveries, safe topics that skirt the edge of deeper waters. Sometimes silence stretches between us, comfortable in a way I'd forgotten silence could be.
And sometimes I kiss her. Or she kisses me. The boundaries blur more each night.
Last night, her head rested against my shoulder as we watched the twin moons rise above the jagged skyline. The weight of her, warm and trusting against me, had been almost unbearable in its simplicity. When she tilted her face up,questioning, I'd answered with my mouth on hers, gentle at first, then hungry with a need I've denied for too long.
Her fingers had traced the scars at my neck, learning them without revulsion. My hands had spanned her waist, marveling at how perfectly she fit against me. We hadn't spoken of what it meant. Speaking would make it real, and reality brings consequences neither of us seems ready to face.
I let Erisen explore every pool, patient as he discovers each minute wonder of this tiny corner of Aerasak. His concentration is absolute, brow furrowed beneath the dark hair that's growing just long enough to cover the nubs of his horns. I watch his small fingers, so careful with each creature he finds, placing them back exactly where they came from. No cruelty in him, despite his bloodline. Despite his father.
"Can we come back tomorrow?" he asks, squinting up at me against the crimson sky.
"Perhaps." I help him gather his collection of shells, smooth stones, and a curiously shaped piece of driftwood that resembles a batlaz with its ears perked. "Your mother might have other plans."
He considers this with a solemnity that seems too heavy for his small shoulders. "She doesn't like to plan too much. Says plans get broken."
The observation cuts with unexpected precision. I know the logic—planning creates attachment, attachment creates vulnerability. Better to expect nothing, to be ready to run at any moment. I lived that way after Zevan died, bounty to bounty, town to town, no roots to tear out when the time came to move on.
"Sometimes," I say carefully, "breaking a plan isn't always bad."
We walk back slower than we came, Erisen's energy finally flagging after hours of exploration. When he stumbles over aloose stone, I lift him without comment, settling him on my shoulders. His small hands grip my horns for balance, more gently than necessary.
"Does it hurt when I touch them?" he asks, voice drowsy with approaching sleep.
"No," I tell him truthfully. "They're the strongest part of me."
His fingers trace the ridges, curious but careful. "Mine are small. Will they get big like yours?"
The question constricts something in my chest. He deserves honesty, but I measure my words carefully. "They'll grow as you do. Each demon's horns are different."
"Even my father's?"
My stride falters slightly. "Yes. Even his."
"I don't remember him," Erisen says after a pause, his voice smaller. "Is that bad?"
I adjust his weight on my shoulders, buying time to master the rage that pulses at the mention of Vorrak. "No. Some things aren't worth remembering."
When we reach their small home, the dying sun casts long shadows across the packed dirt. I set Erisen down, and he immediately scampers to the pile of driftwood I've collected over the past few days to add his treasures. His energy has returned, his resilience remarkable. Like his mother's.
"Can you show me the knife again?" he asks, eyes bright with excitement. He caught me carving his latest wooden creature a few days ago and wanted to learn all about my weapons.
I glance toward the door, checking for Esalyn's approval. She stands framed in the doorway, arms crossed, but her expression holds no objection—just the watchful caution she never fully discards. She gives an almost imperceptible nod.
"Not for using," I clarify, removing the smallest throwing knife from my belt. "For understanding."
I kneel beside him in the dirt, holding the blade flat across my palm. "A knife is like any tool. Respectful hands make it useful. Careless hands make it dangerous."
