Dawn breaks red and angry over Velzaroth's jagged skyline as I make my way through the western quarter. Windows are boarded here, doors barricaded against the desperate. The air reeks of decay and ash, coating my tongue with each inhale. It's the kind of place people disappear. The kind of place Esalyn would choose.
Smart woman. Always thinking three steps ahead.
I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing one of the stones there. One that I gave Erisen. I collected all his treasures in my pack, refusing to leave them behind. But this one I keep it close like a talisman.
A group of street children huddle near a steaming grate, their hollow eyes following my movement with practiced wariness. I approach slowly, hands visible. Among the human and half-breed faces, I spot a gaunt half-demon boy, his tiny horns barely visible beneath matted hair.
"Food for information," I say, setting down a package wrapped in cloth. The scent of fresh bread wafts from it—more than these children have seen in weeks.
Their leader, a girl missing half her ear, steps forward. "Whatcha want, demon?"
"A woman and boy. Human mother, half-demon son. They're running."
The children exchange glances. Information is currency in Velzaroth, and they know its worth. The half-demon boy whispers something to the girl, who nods.
"We saw them two days ago," she says. "Near the sewers beneath Old Temple District. Woman looked scared. Boy wouldn't stop crying."
My chest tightens. Erisen crying. The image slices through me like a blade. Was he afraid? Hungry? Missing his collection he left behind?
Missing me?
I toss another package toward them. "That's for the truth," I say, turning away before they can see how their words have affected me.
The Old Temple District looms before me, its crumbling spires reaching toward the crimson sky like grasping fingers. Once, pilgrims flocked here to worship gods whose names are now forgotten. Now it houses only ghosts and those desperate enough to live among them.
A good place to disappear. An even better place to die unnoticed.
I navigate the maze of fallen columns and headless statues, mapping the possible entrances to the sewer system beneath. Five, maybe six access points. All hidden. All dangerous.
Just like the woman I seek.
Night falls, and still I search, moving with a predator's patience through places no sane being would enter willingly. I kick down rotting doors, scale crumbling walls, drop into black pits that reek of sulfur and death. My body remembers old skills, muscles recalling the efficiency of movement I'd cultivated as Ikoth's most feared bounty hunter.
The hunt awakens something in me I thought long dead. Not just the ruthlessness or the singular focus—though those flood back like old friends—but the clarity. The purpose.
For years after Zevan died, I drifted through life half-dead, taking contracts to fill my purse so I could empty it again at taverns across Aerasak. I became a ghost haunting myown existence, a blade without direction, cutting whatever was placed before me.
Until Esalyn.
Until Erisen.
Until I found myself carving wooden birds in the predawn hours, thinking of a small boy's smile. Until I discovered myself lingering at market stalls, wondering if she would like the scent of this oil or the color of that fabric. Until I realized I was planning for tomorrows again.
Three more informants. Two broken arms. One nearly crushed windpipe. The information trickles in, pieces of a puzzle I assemble with meticulous care. A sighting near the western aqueduct. A woman trading a hair ribbon for bread. A child with golden eyes hiding beneath a merchant's cart during a guard patrol.
I'm getting closer. I can feel it.
On the fifth day, as crimson rain begins to fall—acid-laced droplets that sizzle against stone—I corner a smuggler who specializes in moving people out of Velzaroth. His eyes widen when he sees me, fear scenting the air between us.
"The woman and child," I say, voice deadly calm as I press the edge of my blade against his throat. "You've arranged passage for them."
He swallows, the movement pushing his skin against the sharpened metal. A bead of blood forms, dark against his pale flesh.
"They're gone," he whispers. "Left on this morning's caravan."
The world stops. The breath freezes in my lungs.
"Where?" I demand, pressing harder.
