"You Vrath'Sarrin?" The courier approaches my table like he's walking toward his own execution, scroll clutched white-knuckled in his hand.
I don't answer. Just stare at him, unblinking. Gold eyes have a way of making humans uncomfortable.
"I was told to deliver this directly to you." He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing beneath his collar. "From Lord Vorrak. Payment upon completion."
Another bounty. Of course. The world never runs out of people who need finding.
"Just got back," I say, voice rough from disuse. Three weeks of tracking a smuggler through the back alleys of Vesnios as a favor for Vaelrix. I'm still not sure why he wanted me to take the bounty, but it cleaned my slate with him. Despite having to go to gorgon territory. I still have sand from their desert in my boots and a fresh scar across my shoulder where the criminal's poison blade caught me.
Old debts. Vaelrix saved my life once, back when I still thought mine was worth saving. Lord Kaz'Turoth got his precious artifacts back, I split the reward with Vaelrix, and I got to cross a name off my mental ledger.
"It's urgent." The courier's voice cracks. "A... human woman. She's taken something valuable."
My interest stirs despite myself. Humans aren't uncommon on Aerasak, but they don't have a lot of freedom, especially outside New Solas. Most can't survive the journey between planets, much less life on this one.
"Alive," he adds, as if I might misunderstand. "Lord Thren'Surath wants her returned unharmed."
I take another sip of amerinth, letting the silence stretch until sweat beads on the courier's forehead.
"The payment is substantial. Five hundred novas," he blurts out.
Enough to disappear for a while. Enough to drink until I can't see my brother's face when I close my eyes.
Something cold slides down my spine. A memory I can't afford to revisit—Zevan's face, his eyes wide with fear as I failed him one final time.
I hold out my hand, and he places the scroll in my palm, relief washing over his features. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, like all the scrolls that came before it. Just another hunt. Just another distraction.
"Thank you, sir." The courier bows slightly, backing away from my table. "Lord Thren'Surath awaits your response."
I don't open the scroll yet. Just tuck it into my belt and drain the last of my drink. The tavern continues its dance of deception around me, but I'm already somewhere else—thinking about the hunt ahead. A human woman, running from something powerful enough to offer five hundred novas for their return.
Not my concern why she ran. Not my business what happens after I bring her back. Just another job.
Just another way to keep moving forward when standing still means facing what I've lost.
After the courier leaves, I don't reach for the scroll right away. My fingers rest on it, feeling the weight of the parchment, but my eyes drift across the tavern to where two miners are locked in a clumsy brawl by the hearth. One throws a punch that lands with a dull thud against his opponent's jaw. The other responds by hurling a mug that shatters against the wall, spraying purple amerinth like arterial blood across the stone.
The barkeeper doesn't even look up. In Velzaroth, violence is just background noise—like the distant rumble of the volcanic vents or the constant creak of the chains that suspend the city's walkways over the molten rock below.
I take another drink, letting the amerinth's sweetness coat my tongue before the burn follows. Sweet, then pain. Always in that order. Like life.
Like Zevan.
The memory comes unbidden—my brother's face, pale against the blood-soaked ground, eyes fixed on mine as the light behind them dimmed. His lips moving in words I couldn't hear over the roar of my own heartbeat in my ears. The weight of his hand in mine growing heavier as his grip weakened.
I'd promised to protect him. Another oath broken.
My knuckles whiten around my mug. Five years, and the wound still feels fresh. Still bleeds when I pick at it. Which is why I don't stop drinking until the memories blur at the edges. Why I take every bounty that crosses my path—to keep moving, to stay ahead of what follows at my heels.
The miners' brawl escalates, drawing in a third fighter who swings a chair that connects with satisfying force. I watch with hollow interest, recognizing the desperate fury in their eyes. Men fighting because it's easier than feeling. I understand that better than most.
A dark tendril of my hair slips free from its tie, falling across my face. I tuck it back with scarred fingers, my gold eyes reflecting like twin flames in the bottom of my empty mug. The horns that curve from my temples cast shadows across the table—a reminder of what I am. What I've always been.
Demon. Hunter. Survivor.
The scroll feels heavy in my belt. Another job. Another chase. Another chance to lose myself in something other than memory and amerinth. The payment is substantial enough to buy months of peace—or whatever passes for it in my life.
I stand, ignoring the slight sway in my stance. The amerinth hits full-blooded demons harder than most, and I've had enoughto dull the sharper edges of my thoughts. Just enough to function, not enough to forget. Never enough for that.
