Esalyn appears through a gap in the crowd, face flushed, breath coming in short gasps. Her dark hair has escaped whatever binding held it, framing her face in wild tendrils. When she spots her son, relief floods her features for just an instant before wariness replaces it. Her gaze lifts to me, and the temperature between us drops ten degrees.
"Mama," the boy—Erisen—whispers, and her arm shoots out, dragging him to her side with protective ferocity.
Her other hand never strays from the crude blade sheathed at her hip, fingers curled around the handle in warning. Up close, she's even more striking—high cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, full mouth pressed into a hard line, those hazel eyes flecked with gold regarding me with undisguised suspicion.
"Thank you," she says, the words stiff and forced, clearly weighing whether gratitude or immediate retreat serves her better.
I nod once, mouth dry. Up close, her scent hits me—salt water and something warm beneath it, like sun-dried cotton. Her boy—Erisen—watches me with those unnerving eyes, half-hidden behind his mother's leg but not cowering. Just observing.
A muscle in Esalyn's jaw twitches as she takes my measure. Her gaze travels from my horns to my boots and back, lingering on the scars visible at my throat, the weapons strapped across my body. Her fingers tighten on the boy's shoulder, pulling him fractionally closer.
"We should go," she murmurs to the child, but her eyes don't leave mine.
I step back, creating distance between us. The market chaos is settling now, the drakehounds subdued, but the crowd still swirls around us. She nods a wary thanks, lips pressed tight, and studies me like she's memorizing my face in case I'm another demon to be wary of. The calculation in her eyes is unmistakable—sizing up potential threat, escape routes, whether thanks or flight serves her better.
I shrug it off and say nothing, my expression unreadable. No point in words. No point in prolonging this moment that's already stretched too thin between us. Better to disappear now, before she can ask questions I won't answer.
With a final glance at the boy, I turn and walk away, steps measured and unhurried. The crowd parts around me—most humans in Velzaroth know better than to brush against a demon in passing. I don't look back, but I feel her eyes on me as I disappear into the narrow alley that cuts between the fishmonger's stall and a boarded-up storefront.
The sensation of being watched lingers long after I've left the market square behind, tracking my way through Velzaroth's twisted streets and back to the sad excuse for a room I've rented. The space is bare except for a pallet on the floor and my pack in the corner—nothing worth stealing, nothing worth keeping.
I strip off my weapons one by one, setting them within arm's reach, and stretch out on the thin mattress. Outside, the sky darkens from blood-red to something deeper, and the city'snight sounds rise—drunken shouts, stray animals snarling, the distant rhythm of drums from the tavern two streets over.
Sleep comes eventually, dragging me under despite my resistance.
And then the smoke finds me.
It always begins the same way: air thickening, turning gray around the edges. The dream-version of myself knows what's coming but can never change course. I'm running through narrow passages that twist and change, the walls bleeding shadow. Somewhere ahead, someone is screaming.
"Zevan!" My brother's name tears from my throat, raw and desperate. "Zevan!"
The passages open into a chamber I know too well, where fire crawls along the walls and ceiling. My brother kneels in the center, blood streaming from wounds I can't see clearly through the smoke. His gold eyes—the same shade as mine, as our father's—find me across the distance.
"Dom," he mouths, reaching out a hand streaked with ash and blood.
I lunge forward, fingers stretching toward his, but the distance between us grows with each step I take. The smoke thickens, coiling around my brother's form, obscuring him from view. His scream pierces through it all—high and terrified and abruptly cut short.
"No!" The word shreds my throat as I bolt upright, sheets tangled around my legs, sweat cooling on my skin.
My heart hammers against my ribs as reality seeps back in. The cramped room. Velzaroth. The job. The woman and her boy. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, willing the images away, but they cling like cobwebs.
Morning light filters weakly through the narrow window, revealing my clenched fists, knuckles white with strain. My headthrobs with a dull, insistent pain that wraps from temple to temple.
Every night, the same dream. Every morning, the same hollow ache. Some part of me remains in that smoke-filled chamber, forever reaching for a hand I'll never grasp again.
7
ESALYN
Ipress Erisen to my side as we navigate the market, my fingers wrapped around his small shoulder with more force than necessary. He doesn't complain, though I catch him glancing up at me with those knowing eyes—too old for his six years, too aware of the danger that dogs our heels.
"Stay close," I murmur, scanning the crowd with practiced wariness.
Three days since the market incident. Three days of jumping at shadows, sleeping with my knife clutched in my fist, and checking our tiny room for signs of intrusion. That demon—the one who pulled my son from danger—his face haunts me at odd moments. Those gold eyes, sharp as blades but somehow not cruel. The careful way he stepped back after returning Erisen to me, as if understanding my fear without taking offense.
It makes no sense. Demons don't help humans without reason, especially not in a place like Velzaroth where kindness is just another currency to be bartered.
"Mama, you're squishing me," Erisen whispers, squirming under my grip.
