I love him. Like my own son.
The realization doesn't shock me as it should. It settles into place like the final piece of a puzzle I didn't know I was solving. For six years after Zevan died, I was a dead man walking, taking bounties to fund a slow suicide of alcohol and recklessness. I thought nothing could awaken what died that day.
Then a small hand placed pebbles in my palm, treasures freely given. Golden eyes—so much like my own—looked up with trust I'd done nothing to earn. It might not be my blood in his veins, but he looks like me, he chose me, and he owns my heart.
He'smine.
I push myself harder, legs eating up the coastline as I track southwest. Vorrak won't expect anyone to follow so quickly. He won't expect me at all.
And this time, I'm not hunting for coin or oblivion.
I'm hunting for family.
The path ahead twists through salt-crusted rocks that gleam like bone under the bloodred sky. I navigate the treacherous terrain without slowing, my boots finding purchase where others would stumble. Each breath sears my lungs with the volcanic heat that pulses through these canyons, but I push forward. Pain is irrelevant. Exhaustion is a weakness I can't afford.
I see glimpses of him in my mind—those solemn golden eyes, the careful way he arranges his collection of stones, how his small hand felt when it slipped trustingly into mine. The images cut deeper than any blade.
Three figures emerge from behind a jagged outcropping ahead, their silhouettes stark against the ash-stained sky. Slavers, judging by the brands on their exposed forearms andthe cruel curve of the hooks at their belts. They've spotted me—a lone demon worth good coin in the right market.
"Lost, horn-head?" The largest one grins, revealing filed teeth. "Pretty far from Reinmirth."
I don't waste breath on words. My blade slides free in one fluid motion, the metal singing through the sulfur-heavy air. The first slaver is dead before his companions register my movement. Blood sprays across volcanic rock as I pivot, driving my knife through the second man's throat while my sword separates the third's head from his shoulders.
Three bodies hit the ground in the span of four heartbeats. I clean my blade on one of their shirts and continue without breaking stride. They weren't part of Vorrak's crew—just opportunists in my path. They don't matter. Nothing matters except the boy.
The canyon narrows, funneling me into a ravine where heat rises in visible waves from cracks in the earth. A predator's instinct saves me—I drop and roll as something massive lunges from an overhead ridge. A scaled beast with sulfur-yellow eyes crashes where I stood, jaws snapping on empty air. A firemaw—native to these volcanic borderlands, drawn to heat and movement.
I've killed them before. I'll kill this one faster.
The creature rears back, its armored throat expanding to spit molten venom. I'm already moving, ducking beneath its guard and driving my blade up through the soft spot beneath its jaw. My arms burn as acidic blood splatters across my skin, eating through the surface layer. I ignore the pain, twisting the sword deeper until the firemaw shudders and collapses.
I spare one glance at my forearms—the wounds will heal—and press on. Pain is a distraction. Time is bleeding away from me with every step.
My thoughts turn to Esalyn as I scale a particularly treacherous ridge. Her face when Kareth revealed my betrayal—the shock shattering into something worse than rage. It was the look of someone who expected to be hurt and hated herself for forgetting that truth. The same expression she wore when she spoke of Vorrak and what he'd done to her.
I'd become just another demon who proved her right.
The memory twists in my gut like a living thing. I'd spent a lifetime building walls between myself and everything soft, everything vulnerable. Then she and Erisen had somehow slipped past my defenses, made themselves at home in places I thought long dead. And I'd repaid that miracle with deception.
Night falls as I reach a nameless settlement clinging to the edge of a lava flow. Lights flicker behind shuttered windows. I smell fear as I approach—the residents here know trouble when they see it. Three mercenaries block my path at the edge of town, weapons drawn, confidence born of numbers.
"Toll to pass," one says, motioning to a leather pouch at his hip. "Pay or turn back."
I don't have time for this. My sword is in my hand before he finishes speaking, the blade catching starlight as it arcs through the air. The first mercenary's eyes widen in the instant before steel meets flesh. The second manages to raise his weapon before I drive my knife between his ribs. The third turns to run.
He doesn't make it three steps.
I clean my blades methodically, the movements automatic after years of practice. These men worked for someone—likely the local crime lord. Their deaths will draw attention I don't need, but speed matters more than stealth now.
The trail leads to central Ikoth, toward increasingly difficult terrain. Vorrak is counting on the journey itself being a deterrent. He doesn't know what drives me. He can't understandthat this isn't about gold or reputation. This is about not failing a second time.
Zevan's face flashes in my memory—not as he was at the end, broken and bleeding in my arms, but smiling. Young. Trusting me to protect him as I'd always promised. I'd failed him once. I would die before failing Erisen the same way.
25
DOMNO
Reinmirth's air feels different from Velzaroth's—heavier with humidity that clings like a second skin, carrying scents of unfamiliar vegetation and decay. The red sky hangs lower here, a permanent blood-stain above me as I survey Vorrak's stronghold from the treeline.
