"Good," I whisper as he completes the alphabet. "So good, Eri."
Night falls quickly in Velzaroth, the red sky deepening to black. I tuck Erisen into our shared pallet, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He yawns, fighting sleep as children do, though his reasons are darker than most. Sleep means vulnerability, means nightmares.
"Rest," I murmur, stroking his hair. "I'll keep watch."
When his breathing slows, I allow myself to study his face—the curve of his cheek still soft with childhood, dark lashes resting against skin several shades lighter than mine. My fingers hover above his hairline, where I know the small bumps of horns hide beneath his black hair. They've grown, no longer easily mistaken for unusual birthmarks. Soon, no amount of careful brushing will conceal them.
I trace the air above his features, not quite touching. Somewhere in this face is mine—the shape of his nose, perhaps the set of his mouth when he concentrates. But those eyes when open, golden and bright, remind me of what cannot be outrun. Vorrak's blood runs in his veins, no matter how far we flee.
How far does Vorrak's influence reach? The question torments my nights. Demons live for centuries, their grudges outlasting human generations. His pride alone would demand retribution—I stole from him twice: my body and his son.
5
DOMNO
I've tracked worse quarry through better terrain. Velzaroth is a shit-stained maze of broken stone and seeping shadows, but the city's chaos works in my favor. No one notices another demon passing through, not when we all walk with the same dangerous purpose. Four days of methodical hunting, working outward from the docks where she was last spotted. The woman's careful—I'll give her that. Leaves almost no trail. Almost.
The butcher's shop sits at a three-way junction of alleys, a strategic location with multiple escape routes. Smart choice for someone who needs to disappear quickly. I position myself across the market square, back against a crumbling wall where sulfur lamps cast just enough shadow to conceal my presence. The hood of my cloak obscures my horns, though I don't bother hiding my eyes. Gold irises are common enough in this cesspit of a city.
Movement at the back of the butcher's catches my attention—a slender figure in threadbare clothes emerges, head down, shoulders hunched inward. Even at this distance, her body language speaks volumes: prey animal, always alert, alwaysready to bolt. Esalyn Tyre. The human woman worth five hundred novas to someone powerful enough to hire me.
I go still, the way predators do before the killing lunge. But there's something unexpected. A small shape moves at her side, fingers curled in the fabric of her skirt. A child. A fucking child.
My jaw clenches. The dossier mentioned nothing about a son.
They move through the market with practiced efficiency. Nothing wasted—not steps, not glances, not breath. The kind of economy that comes from living on the edge of survival for too long. I follow at a distance, weaving between vendors and laborers with measured steps. Not too fast, not too eager. Hunting isn't about the rush; it's about patience.
The boy is small, maybe five or six. His movements mirror his mother's—head low, body angled slightly behind hers. But there's something in his careful steps, the way he scans their surroundings, that sparks recognition. He moves like a hunted thing. Like me, after Zevan died.
I watch as Esalyn purchases a small loaf of bread, counting out copper lummi with fingers that hesitate over each coin. Her nails are cracked, stained dark at the edges. Working hands. She breaks off a piece of bread and passes it to the boy, who tucks it away rather than eating it immediately. Saving it. A child who knows hunger intimately.
When she turns slightly, I catch a better glimpse of her face. High cheekbones, skin the color of rich earth, eyes constantly moving. Beautiful in the way dangerous things often are—all sharp edges and watchfulness. But it's the exhaustion etched into the lines around her mouth that snags something in my chest. A bone-deep weariness I recognize from my own reflection.
The boy looks up suddenly, and his eyes lock with mine across the market. Gold. Demon gold. Not full-blood, butunmistakable. The pieces click together with sickening clarity. She's running from the boy's father. A demon who wants his half-blood son back.
Something cold settles in my gut. Five hundred novas suddenly feels like blood money.
The boy tugs at his mother's skirt, whispers something. Her head snaps up, gaze sweeping the crowd until she spots me. For a heartbeat, our eyes meet. I see the moment fear floods her system—pupils dilating, shoulders tensing, hand tightening on her son's shoulder. She doesn't run. Smart. Instead, she calmly changes direction, leading the boy down a side alley without obvious panic.
"Fuck," I mutter, pushing off the wall.
This job just got complicated. I told myself after Zevan that I'd never hunt children. Never be the monster that took my brother's life. But if I walk away, someone else will come. Someone who won't hesitate. Someone who won't see a mother and child fighting to survive—just novas on the hoof.
I follow at a distance, tracking them through Velzaroth's underbelly. Their home, if you could call it that, is little more than a glorified crack in the city's bones—a space between a tannery and the cliff face, sealed with tar and desperation. I watch from the shadows as she ushers the boy inside, checking the alley three times before following. The door closes. One bolt slides into place. Then another. Then a third.
The boots on her feet are worn nearly through at the heels. The cloak wrapped around her shoulders has been mended so many times it's more patch than original fabric. Everything about her screams of someone using every ounce of strength just to stay one step ahead of whatever nightmare chases her.
I've seen enough. The bounty can go fuck itself. But walking away isn't an option—not when whoever posted it will simplyhire someone else, someone who won't give a shit about hunting a mother and her half-demon son.
I need a new plan. One that keeps them alive without putting my own neck on the chopping block. One that accounts for the complication of demon blood in the boy's veins—blood that likely belongs to someone powerful enough to offer five hundred novas for their return.
My hand finds the hilt of my blade, a familiar anchor. Zevan's face flashes in my mind—young, scared, betrayed in his final moments. I won't be the cause of another child's terror. Not for all the novas in Aerasak.
I trail them for three days without approaching. Keeping enough distance that she won't bolt, close enough to intervene if needed. It becomes a strange ritual—each day I find a new shadow to occupy, a different vantage point to observe from. My presence in Velzaroth's underbelly raises no eyebrows; demons pass through the city's edges often enough, and I've mastered the art of becoming invisible through stillness.
On the second day, I watch her arrive at the fish market before dawn. She works twelve straight hours gutting catch alongside five other humans, her fingers moving with precise, mechanical efficiency. The fishmonger—a surly old bastard with skin like cured leather—pays her half what he pays the others. She doesn't argue, just pockets the lummi with that same careful hesitation, like each coin represents another day of breathing.
"You short her again," I mutter from my hidden corner, fingers tightening around my blade. "Stingy fuck." But I stay put. Drawing attention serves neither of us.
