"Fine day to be watching the water," a dock worker comments, not looking at me as she secures a mooring line. "Finer if you've got a reason for being here."
I toss her a lummi. "Just learning the lay of the land."
She pockets the coin without checking its worth. "Land's for the desperate. Water's for those with something to lose."
Another piece to file away. The water routes are watched more closely than the land. Useful.
I spend the evenings in taverns with names that sound like curses—The Bleeding Eye, The Salted Wound, The Lucky Bastard—where information flows as freely as the watered-downspirits. I drink just enough to blend in, never enough to dull my senses. Gold eyes make me memorable enough; I don't need drunkenness to mark me further.
Word of humans is scarce but exists. They're here, living in the margins of a city that would consume them if given half a chance. Servants in the high houses, laborers in the sulfur mines, bodies for sale in the steam district.
"A human woman came through last month," a barkeep with a facial tattoo that crawls up his neck like ivy tells me. "Desperate for work. Pretty thing." He eyes me as he wipes a grimy glass with an equally grimy cloth. "Why's a demon looking for human stock anyway? Thought your kind preferred sport over service."
I slide a nova across the counter, watching his eyes widen at its value. "I'm a collector, not a sportsman."
On the third day, patterns emerge from the chaos. The high houses on the eastern ridge employ human servants, prizing their shorter lifespans and lack of magical defenses. In the western quarter, where heat vents make the streets permanently fogged, humans perform quick marriages for those needing documentation. And in the sprawling market underneath the great chain bridges, I hear whispers of a human healer who treats those the city would rather forget.
It should be simple. Find her, secure her, deliver her to Thren'Surath. Collect my payment. Return to drinking myself into oblivion, one step closer to joining my brother in whatever lies beyond this life.
Simple.
But as I stand at my window overlooking the smoke-shrouded city, watching a black pitter bird dart between rooftops with unlikely grace, I feel a strange reluctance settling into my bones. Another bounty, another soul dragged back to whatevercage they tried to escape. How many times can I play this game before I become nothing but the weapon I carry?
I drain the last of my amerinth, embracing the burn as it tears its way down my throat. Not my concern. Not my business. Just the job. Just the hunt.
Just another reason to keep moving when standing still feels too much like dying.
4
ESALYN
Iwake before the ash-fall begins, that brief moment when Velzaroth pretends it isn't choking on its own decay. My body complains as I rise, a map of stiffness and old aches—reminders of a past I can't outrun. The mattress beneath me sags in the middle, permanently damp from the steam that seeps through the cracked floorboards. Our one window is covered with a scrap of fabric I stole from a merchant's cart three cities ago, now grimy with soot but still keeping out the worst of the cold.
Cold water awaits in our chipped basin. I splash it over my face, hissing at the shock, but welcoming the clarity it brings. Every morning the same ritual—washing away nightmares before they can settle too deeply into my bones. My fingers trace the scar at my collarbone, a parting gift from Vorrak—not his cruelest, but the one I see each day. A permanent signature on skin that should have been only mine to mark.
I tie my hair back with a length of twine, tucking the dark strands beneath a scarf. Hair like mine would fetch a good price from wig-makers, but I'd rather starve than have strange hands that close to my scalp again.
Erisen still sleeps, his small body curled tight beneath the frayed blanket we share. Only his hair is visible, black as spilled ink against the dingy fabric. I watch the rise and fall of his breathing, counting each one silently. One, two, three... The most precious sound in this forsaken city.
"Eri," I whisper, hating to wake him but knowing I must. We survive by routine, by vigilance, by never breaking pattern. "Time to wake, little one."
He stirs, golden eyes blinking open—Vorrak's eyes, or so I'd thought. Now, I've seen enough demons in Velzaroth to know many share that trait. It brings me little comfort. His tiny hands reach up, finding my face in the dim light.
"Hungry," he says, the word barely audible. He's learned to be silent even in his needs.
Our breakfast is meager—a heel of bread I've saved, darkened with age and stale enough that I have to break it against our small table. I give him the larger piece, watching as he nibbles slowly, making it last. No child should know how to ration hunger.
"Remember today's rules?" I ask, smoothing his hair over the tiny buds of horns that grow at his temples.
"Stay close. Stay quiet." His voice is solemn, his eyes understanding too much for his six years. "Hide from the gold eyes."
My throat tightens. "Just until sundown. Then we'll come home and I'll tell you a story."
His smile, rare and precious, lights something in me that refuses to die no matter how hard this world tries to extinguish it. Hope. Love. Defiance.
We leave our shelter as the sky bruises with dawn, picking our way through Velzaroth's twisted arteries. The building we live in should have collapsed years ago, held together by spite and the roots of stubborn plants that crack through stone. Thealley outside is narrow enough that I can touch both walls if I extend my arms, slick with condensation and something darker that might be blood.
Erisen's hand in mine is warm, his steps matching my pace with the precision of much practice. We wind through the lower city, keeping to the shadows. I've mapped every route, every hiding spot, every escape. Knowledge is survival here.
