The market district comes alive with the sunrise, merchants setting up stalls beneath sulfur lamps that cast a sickly glow over their wares. The butcher's shop sits at the corner where three alleys meet, its back pens filled with tuskrams awaiting slaughter. The smell is overwhelming—blood and offal, the creatures' fear tang. But it pays three lummi a day, and the butcher asks no questions about my past.
"Ah, the quiet one," the butcher grunts when I appear at the back door. His name is Krull, and his arms are perpetually stained to the elbows. "Pens need cleaning. Got three new beasts for processing today."
I nod, not wasting words. Erisen slips behind me, almost invisible in his stillness.
"Boy can have the scraps if he helps sort entrails," Krull adds, nodding at Erisen. An act of kindness in his way, though the thought of my son handling the bloody remains of slaughtered animals makes my stomach turn.
"Thank you," I say, because refusal isn't a luxury I can afford.
The day unfolds in blood and filth. I muck out the pens while tuskrams squeal and thrash, their bulbous bodies ramming against the wooden slats. Their terror is palpable, a stink that clings to everything. I work mechanically, shoveling waste and hosing down concrete. My hands are cracked, bleeding in places where the harsh lye soap has eaten away at my skin.
Erisen stays near the back wall, sorting through buckets of organs—livers, kidneys, hearts—separating what can be soldfrom what will become scrap. His little hands are stained crimson, but his face remains impassive. He's learned to wear a mask better than children triple his age.
Midmorning brings a group of demons striding through the alley, their horns catching the sulfur light. The sight of them freezes the blood in my veins—gold eyes, arrogant postures, power crackling at their fingertips. Vorrak's kin, if not in blood then in nature.
"Eri—" I hiss, but he's already moving, slipping behind stacked crates with the silence of a shadow.
I bow my head, becoming invisible in my servitude. Just another human laborer, not worth a second glance. My heart hammers against my ribs as they pass, laughing at some private joke. One pauses, glancing toward the crates where Erisen hides.
"Smell that?" he asks, nostrils flaring. "There's something..."
"It's a slaughterhouse," another replies, shoving him forward. "Everything smells like death and shit."
They move on, their attention caught by a vendor selling contraband spices. I exhale slowly, counting to ten before looking toward Erisen's hiding spot. He emerges like a ghost, his eyes wide but calm. Always calm, my strange, solemn child.
"Too good for this world," I whisper when he returns to his task. "Too good."
Finally, the day ends. The walk home clings to routine—we take different routes each day, weaving through Velzaroth's tangled streets like prey animals avoiding the scent lines of predators. Today we pass the dye-works where women with blue-black hands hang strips of fabric from iron hooks. Their fingers will never come clean; I understand that kind of permanent stain.
Erisen's face brightens when we reach our alley, exhaustion giving way to the small pleasure of recognizing home. Ourshelter isn't much—a forgotten space barely held together. But it's ours.
I usher Erisen inside, my eyes sweeping the narrow alleyway one final time before following. My fingers find the three bolts automatically—slide, click, secure. One would be enough, but three buys precious seconds if someone comes. Three might mean the difference between escape and capture.
"Hands," I say, and Erisen holds his out for inspection. Blood has dried beneath his fingernails, embedded in the tiny creases of his knuckles. I pour water from our clay pitcher into the basin and add a drop of precious soap—bartered from a blind woman who makes it with lye and tuskram fat.
"Scrub hard," I tell him, working the soap into his small hands. "Under the nails too."
He obeys silently, methodical in his movements. Everything about him is careful, deliberate. A child shouldn't move with such practiced caution.
While he washes, I light our small brazier with trembling hands. The flint sparks three times before catching the kindling. Warmth blooms slowly, pushing back against the perpetual chill of our hideaway. From our stores—a crate beneath the floorboards—I retrieve a handful of dried nimond beans and the bone we've been using for broth all week. Not much, but it will fill our bellies.
"Can I help?" Erisen asks, his clean hands now fidgeting at his sides.
"You can set the table." I nod toward our "table"—a flat stone balanced atop smaller rocks, with two upturned crates for chairs. He places our two wooden bowls and single spoon with careful precision, adjusting them until they align perfectly.
The broth bubbles thin and watery, the beans softening gradually. I stir with a stick whittled smooth, watching Erisen from the corner of my eye. His movements are fluid, economical.He wastes nothing—not energy, not emotion, not sound. Like me, he's learned that survival demands efficiency.
"Tomorrow we'll have fresh bread," I promise. "Krull's wife said she'd swap for the kidney packets you sorted."
He nods, not quite smiling but his eyes lightening in a way that warms me more than any fire could. When the food is ready, I serve him first, giving him the larger portion as always. My own hunger can wait; his cannot.
We eat in comfortable silence, the spoon passing between us. His fingers are delicate as he accepts it, careful not to touch my skin—another habit born of necessity. For years I'd flinched at contact, and he'd learned not to initiate it.
When the bowls are empty and washed, I bring out our most cherished possession: broken ceramic tiles I found discarded behind a scriptorium, and bits of charcoal from our brazier. Learning his letters is dangerous—educated slaves fetch higher prices—but knowledge might someday save him where I cannot.
"Show me what you remember," I say, arranging the tiles on our stone table.
His small fingers grasp the charcoal, leaving faint smudges as he forms each letter. His concentration is absolute, brow furrowed, the tip of his tongue visible between his lips. The sight strikes me with unexpected tenderness. In these moments, he's just a child learning to write, not a fugitive's son with demon blood.
