Dropping coins on the table, I move toward the door, my steps deliberate. My blade shifts against my hip with each movement, the weight of it as familiar to me as breathing. The miners pause in their brawl as I pass, instinctively tracking the predator in their midst. Smart enough to fear me, drunk enough to consider something stupid. I meet their gaze with unblinking gold eyes, and they find urgent business elsewhere.
Outside, Velzaroth's perpetual ashy wind greets me like an old enemy. It cuts through my coat, biting down to bone with cold teeth. The sky above glows red from the distant volcanic peaks, casting the obsidian buildings in bloody light. Sulfur and sea salt sting my nostrils as I navigate the narrow, winding street that hugs the cliffside.
The scroll stays tucked in my coat, pressed against my heart like a cold promise. Another hunt. Another distraction from the hollow space where purpose used to live.
I let the wind push me forward, each step taking me further from the tavern and closer to whatever lies ahead. Not hope—I abandoned that when I buried Zevan. Just movement. Just survival.
Just enough reason to see another dawn.
3
DOMNO
Velzaroth rises like a black scar against the coast, its jagged streets etched into volcanic cliffs that overlook a roiling, wine-dark sea. I arrive on foot, my purse lighter after paying for a ride to the city's gates. My boots are caked in soot from the last border outpost, my cloak damp with sea mist and smoke. Always the same—this city of outcasts and predators, where every shadow hides a knife and every corner offers either salvation or damnation, depending on how much coin you're carrying.
The main thoroughfare winds upward like a serpent, twisting through layers of crumbling obsidian architecture. Steam hisses from vents in the stone, creating pockets of fog that cling to my skin and clothes. Merchants hawk contraband beneath sulfur lamps that cast everyone in sickly yellow light—making demons look more demonic, humans more ghostly. A fitting place for the in-between creatures of the world.
I shoulder past a group of sailors, their arms laden with exotic cargo fresh from the docks. One bumps against me, eyes widening when he catches sight of my horns, the gold of my eyes. He murmurs an apology I don't acknowledge. Fear has always been the only currency that never depreciates.
The city breathes like something alive. Chains creak as they sway between buildings, suspending walkways over drops that plummet straight into molten rock. The air tastes of salt and sulfur, coating my tongue with each breath. At the crossroads, a street performer spits fire, her audience tossing lummi at her feet. The flames briefly illuminate the tattoos covering her body—protection symbols, warding glyphs. Smart woman. The only way to survive Velzaroth is to acknowledge its appetite.
I find lodging in a cramped rooftop room above a gambling den called The Lucky Bastard. Five novas for a week, paid in advance to a toothless old woman who doesn't blink at the weapons strapped to my back and hip. She hands me a rusted key, her fingers lingering on mine longer than necessary.
"Extra for clean sheets," she rasps, her breath smelling of nimond bean brew and decay.
I drop another nova on her palm, not bothering to argue. The thought of laying my head on whatever filth coats the mattress is enough to part me from my coin.
The stairs creak beneath my weight, announcing my presence to anyone listening. Four flights up, each narrower than the last, until I'm at the roof level where my room waits—dark and airless, its single window offering a jagged slice of ocean and the occasional scream of gulls. It matches my mood.
Inside, the space is barely large enough for the bed and a cracked washbasin. The ceiling slopes sharply, forcing me to duck my head near the walls. A worn desk sits beneath the window, its surface carved with symbols and threats and pleas from previous occupants. I run my fingers over one—an intricate ward against nightmares. Didn't work for whoever left it.
I drop my pack on the threadbare rug, dust billowing up from the impact. My weapons come next, arranged within easy reach of the bed—old habits that have kept me alive this long. The noise from the gambling den below seeps through thefloorboards—curses, laughter, the clatter of dice against wood. A fight breaks out, followed by breaking glass, then the dull thud of a body hitting the floor. Just another night in Velzaroth.
The scroll from Thren'Surath sits inside my coat, still unopened. Five hundred novas for a human woman. A fortune by any standard, especially for what sounds like a simple retrieval. Which means it's not simple at all.
I finally pull it free, breaking the wax seal and unrolling it on the desk. The parchment crackles beneath my fingers, revealing a sketch of a woman with sharp eyes and stubborn mouth, dark hair pulled back from her face. Beside it, details of her last known location—a small settlement in central Ikoth.
My gaze lingers on the sketch longer than necessary. Something about her face—the set of her jaw, the slight furrow between her brows—speaks of determination. Of someone who doesn't run without good reason.
Not my concern, I remind myself. Not my business why she ran or what will happen when I bring her back. Just the job.
Just the hunt.
Just another reason to keep moving forward when standing still feels too much like waiting for death.
I roll the scroll back up and tuck it away, ignoring the hollow feeling in my chest. Tomorrow, I'll gather supplies and information. Tonight, I'll drink until sleep finds me.
For three days,I map Velzaroth like a general planning for war. Each morning, I rise before the sulfurous sun breaks through the smoke-choked sky, stepping into streets still quiet from the previous night's debauchery. The air hangs thick with ash and secrets, both equally likely to suffocate the unwary.
I begin with the undercity, descending crumbling staircases carved into the volcanic rock. The pathways here twist likedying snakes, intersecting in ways that defy logic. Perfect for an ambush—or an escape. I mark each intersection in my mind, committing to memory which alleys lead to dead ends and which offer sanctuary for those desperate enough to need it.
"Watching our routes, demon?" A smuggler with one milky eye nods at me from his post, smoke curling from his pipe. His skin bears the tattoos of three different prison wardens.
I don't answer. Just brush my hand over the hilt of my blade, a reminder that curiosity has shortened many lives in this city.
The undercity reeks of desperation—the fermented sweat of those one meal away from starvation, the acrid tang of fear that never quite washes from stone. But even in this pit of misery, there's order. I watch as children dart between market stalls, stealing what they can and reporting back to whoever owns them this week. Watch as the guards accept their bribes at precise intervals, turning blind eyes to shipments they're paid to ignore.
By midday, I'm at the docks, where massive black chains anchor ships to stone piers. The guards rotate every four hours—too frequent to be convenient for smugglers, too predictable for it to be anything but intentional. The pattern is clear to any with eyes to see: the hour after rotation is when contraband flows freely.
