The boy waits nearby, tucked into an alcove with a frayed bit of rope that he knots and unknots with nimble fingers. He doesn't wander, doesn't whine, doesn't demand. Just watches, those gold eyes missing nothing. Something in me tightens every time he looks up to check that his mother is still there.
On the third day, rain turns Velzaroth's walkways to slick obsidian, steam rising where droplets hit the heated stone beneath. The boy slips in the market, skinning his knee. He doesn't cry out—just bites his lip and rights himself before anyone notices. But I see the way Esalyn's hand trembles when she kneels to check the wound. She's running on fumes, dark circles under her eyes like bruises.
They follow the same careful path home each night, a winding route that doubles back twice and passes through a crowded tavern yard where pickpockets and merchants create the perfect cover. Smart.
By the fourth day, I've mapped their entire routine, calculated the moment she's most vulnerable, pinpointed exactly where I could intercept them without witnesses.
But I don't move. Something holds me back—something beyond the boy's demon eyes and careful movements.
On the fifth day, I find a better perch atop a crumbling guard tower overlooking the eastern market. From here, I can see the full sweep of Esalyn's day unfold like a tattered scroll. The way her shoulders straighten before she enters any public space, the practiced smile she offers vendors, the vigilant glances she casts over her shoulder. Each movement tells a story of someone who's learned survival through relentless discipline.
She stops at the fishmonger's stall last, trading what looks like mended fishing nets for a small package wrapped in oilcloth. The old man's face softens a fraction when the boy peers over the counter—the only kindness I've witnessed directed at them. He slips an extra dried fish into the bundle when she isn't looking. The boy catches my eye across the market and quickly looks away, tugging at his mother's sleeve.
My fist clenches against the stone ledge. I expected to find a thief, a liar, a woman who'd conned her way into someone's pockets or bed before disappearing. Someone who deserved thebounty on her head. What I see instead makes acid rise in my throat—a woman stripped down to pure survival instinct, protecting her child with ferocious endurance.
As darkness falls, they make their way down that same narrow side street, disappearing into their meager shelter. For the first time in years, I find myself plagued by indecision. Simple math says to collect the bounty. Five hundred novas buys a lot of oblivion, enough amerinth to drown in until even Zevan's face blurs into blessed nothing.
But that gold-eyed boy keeps slipping into my thoughts. The careful way he watches for danger, the hunger that haunts his small frame. His mother's exhausted vigilance.
I should walk away. Let some other hunter claim this bounty and carry the weight of whatever happens next. But I know better—whoever posted that reward won't stop with one failed attempt. And the next hunter might not hesitate when they see the boy.
I could turn her in, make sure the boy finds somewhere safe. Split the difference between my conscience and my survival. But even as I consider it, something long dormant stirs in me—a feeling alien enough that it takes me a moment to recognize it as something other than anger or emptiness.
It's recognition. The bone-deep understanding of what it means to protect something when the whole world wants to tear it away.
Dusk settles over Velzaroth like a funeral shroud, and I remain perched above the city, caught in the unfamiliar territory between duty and something that might be mercy. For the first time since burying my brother, I can't fall back on cold calculation. Something about this woman and her son has cracked open a door I thought permanently sealed—and I'm not certain I want to see what lies on the other side.
6
DOMNO
I've positioned myself between a spice merchant and a weapon seller, their competing scents of cardamom and steel oil providing perfect cover. From here, I can watch Esalyn work without being obvious. She guts fish with mechanical precision, her knife flashing silver in the weak sunlight filtering through Velzaroth's perpetual haze. The boy sits cross-legged nearby, playing with those same frayed bits of rope, fashioning them into intricate knots that his small fingers somehow manage without effort.
Six days of watching them has taught me their patterns. Six days of planning how to approach without sending them running. Six days of telling myself this is just another job while something in my chest argues otherwise.
The market pulses around us, a living organism of transaction and survival. Velzaroth's underbelly always smells the same—sulfur and desperation, with notes of rot beneath. I've breathed worse. The boy—still nameless in my mind—glances up occasionally, those gold eyes scanning the crowd with unnerving awareness. Twice already he's nearly spotted me, his gaze sliding past my shadow before darting away.
"Fresh catch!" the fishmonger bellows, drawing more customers. "Straight from the bloodwaters!"
Esalyn doesn't look up, doesn't pause. Her hands are red-raw from the brine and fish guts, but they never falter. The muscles in her forearms flex with each precise cut. Survivor's hands. Fighter's focus.
A commotion erupts at the far end of the market square—shouting, the crash of wood, angry voices rising above the market's normal din. I straighten, instantly alert. A merchant's cart has toppled, sending barrels rolling across the uneven cobblestones. People scatter, some cursing, others laughing at the vendor's misfortune.
Then comes the growling.
"Shit," I mutter, spotting the source. A pack of tethered drakehounds—nasty beasts with scaled hides and too many teeth—strain against their bindings, agitated by the sudden chaos. Their handler, a heavy-set human with scarred arms, struggles to control them as the animals snap and lunge at passersby.
My attention snaps back to Esalyn. She's already moving, head up, hand extended toward where the boy was sitting. But he's not there.
The crowd surges as demons and humans alike push to avoid the rolling barrels and snarling drakehounds. I scan the churning mass of bodies, searching for that small figure. There—a flash of dark hair, a small form caught in the current of the panicking crowd. The boy stumbles as someone shoves past him, sending him directly into the path of a particularly vicious-looking drakehound that's nearly worked its jaw free of its muzzle.
I move before my brain registers the decision, slipping through gaps in the crowd with practiced ease. No conscious thought, just pure instinct driving me forward. My hand closesaround the back of the boy's cloak, fingers gripping the worn fabric as I yank him backward with enough force to lift him off his feet. His small body collides with my legs as I pivot, shoving him behind me and into the shelter of an abandoned vegetable stall.
"Stay," I growl, the word rough in my throat. The drakehound lunges, meeting empty air where the child stood moments before.
The boy looks up at me, eyes wide but remarkably free of tears. Not afraid—alert. Calculating. Those gold eyes so like mine assess me with an intelligence that catches me off guard.
"Erisen!" A woman's desperate voice cuts through the chaos.
