Chapter 1

Avenor

The eastern port reeks of salt and sweat, a familiar cocktail that barely registers anymore. I weave through the crowd, dodging cargo haulers and their zarryn teams while clutching Rovak's sealed correspondence. Three trade masters, two customs officials, and one very irritated harbor inspector later, I'm finally done with his errands.

The last stop nearly cost me my patience. Kellix spent twenty minutes explaining why the delay of our imports weren't his fault, as if I gave a damn about his excuses. I just needed Rovak's shipping manifests approved, not a dissertation on port politics.

"Your master's reputation precedes him," Kellix had said, hands trembling slightly as he stamped the documents. "Always efficient. Always... thorough."

Thorough. That's one way to put it. Rovak doesn't leave loose ends, and everyone in Sarziroch knows it.

I tuck the approved manifests inside my coat and head back toward the estate district. The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly, turning the cobblestones into miniature furnaces. My pointed ears twitch at the chaos around me—merchants haggling, children shrieking, the constant clatter of wheels on stone.

A narrow alley catches my eye, mostly because it's quieter than the main thoroughfare. The shortcut will shave ten minutes off my walk, and right now that sounds like paradise. But as I turn the corner, the silence becomes something else entirely.

Blackened stone walls stretch up on either side, scarred by fire that must have burned hot and fast. The acrid smell of charred wood still lingers, smoke spilling into the air. If I had to guess, the fire only stopped burning this morning. Ash coats everything in a fine gray film that crunches under my boots.

Then I hear it.

A baby's cry, thin and desperate, echoing off the damaged walls. I freeze mid-step, my hand instinctively moving to the blade at my hip. Not because I sense danger—the opposite, actually. The sound is so helpless, so utterly vulnerable, that every instinct I possess screams at me to find the source.

The wailing comes from deeper in the alley, near a collapsed doorway where rubble spills across the ground. I pick my way through the debris, following the sound like a beacon. My navy eyes scan every shadow, every corner, searching for whoever might be responsible for leaving a child here.

No one.

The alley is completely empty except for me and whatever's making that heart-wrenching noise.

I find her nestled deep inside ruins, wrapped in what might have once been a blanket but now looks more like singed rags. I have no clue how she could be so deep inside the fire, most definitely engulfed, and is still alive. 

She's tiny—maybe four months old, if I had to guess. Her dark brown skin is streaked with ash and tears, and those golden eyes... fuck. They're enormous in her little face, bright and desperate and fixed on me like I'm her salvation.

"Where did you come from?" I mutter, crouching down beside her. 

She's got thick black hair that curls in little wisps around her face, and when she opens her mouth to cry again, I catch a glimpse of tiny horn nubs just starting to form above her temples. She's a demon child in the human sector of the city. Someone's daughter, abandoned in the ruins of what looks like the ruins of a mostly collapsed home.

I wait. 

Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

No one comes. No frantic mother searching the rubble. No family member calling her name. Just me and this infant who shouldn't be alive after however long she's been here.

"Alright," I say quietly, more to myself than to her. "Let's see what we're dealing with."

I reach out slowly, carefully, half-expecting her to flinch away. Instead, her tiny hand shoots out and wraps around my finger with surprising strength. The moment our skin makes contact, her wailing stops.

Just... stops.

She stares up at me with those golden eyes, her grip tightening on my finger like she's afraid I'll disappear. There's something almost desperate in the way she holds on, as if she knows I'm her only chance.

"Shit," I breathe.

I've seen this before. With Nalla, when she first met Rovak. That instant recognition, that immediate trust that defies all logic. Some children just know when they've found their person.

The problem is, I'm nobody's person. I'm a guard. I take orders, I eliminate threats, I protect what matters to Rovak. I don't do... this.

But as I look down at her—really look—something shifts in my chest. She's so damn small. Her clothes are singed at the edges, her face is streaked with soot, and she can't be more than a few months old. What kind of bastard leaves a baby in a burned-out alley?

"Someone's coming back for you," I tell her, though my voice lacks conviction. "They have to be."

Another ten minutes pass. Then twenty. The sun moves overhead, casting different shadows across the rubble, and still no one appears. The infant—she needs a name, but that's not my job—watches me with an intensity that seems impossible for someone so young.

When I try to pull my finger free, she makes a small sound of distress. Not quite a cry, but close enough that I stop moving immediately.

"You're going to be a problem, aren't you?" I ask.

As if in response, she makes what might be her first attempt at a smile. It's lopsided and probably accidental, but it hits me like a punch to the gut.

Nalla used to do that. Still does, actually, when she's trying to charm her way out of trouble or convince someone to pick her up. It works on me every damn time, and Liora knows it. She'll catch me sneaking Nalla extra sweets or letting her stay up past her bedtime, and all she has to do is raise an eyebrow. I'm completely useless when it comes to little girls with big eyes and bigger attitudes.

It’s been that way since Liora, who was once a human servant in my master’s estate and is now his mate, brought her daughter to the manor. I’ve known Liora for years, and we’ve become close friends. Which is why when she disappeared for two years and Rovak nearly lost it, I felt the pain as well. And when she showed up again with a little half-demon daughter, we all immediately accepted her back and fell in love with Nalla. Rovak claimed the child as his own—even if she wasn’t his in blood. 

This little girl is different, though. Quieter. More watchful. But there's something in her expression—a kind of old soul wisdom that reminds me of Nalla's more serious moments. Like she's seen more than any child should, even at her age.

"Your family's not coming, is it?" I say softly.

She just stares at me, her hand still wrapped around my finger.

I look around the alley again, taking in the scope of the damage. Whatever happened here was thorough. The building that once stood at this spot is completely gone, reduced to scattered stone and charred timber. If this was her home...

If her family was inside when it burned...

"Fuck."

The word slips out before I can stop it, and she blinks at me with those massive golden eyes. Great. My first conversation with an infant and I'm already corrupting her vocabulary.

I can't leave her here. That much is obvious. Even if someone does come looking—which seems increasingly unlikely—she'll be dead by then. It's hot, she's dehydrated, and Sarziroch's alleys aren't exactly safe after dark.

But I also can't just... take her. Can I?

Rovak would understand. He took in Liora and Nalla without hesitation, made them part of his household like they'd always belonged there despite Liora’s sudden disappearance. He’d always been in love with that girl, but I think he would have done it either way. And Nalla would be thrilled to have another child around, someone closer to her own age.

The infant shifts slightly in her makeshift blanket, and I catch a glimpse of how thin she is. When did she last eat? How long has she been alone?

I gather her up as carefully as I can, supporting her head the way I've seen Liora do with Nalla. She settles against my chest immediately, that tiny hand still gripping my finger, and the rightness of it nearly knocks me sideways.

She fits perfectly in my arms.

The weight of her in my arms feels both foreign and familiar. She's lighter than she should be but she radiates the same kind of desperate trust that makes my chest tighten in ways I don't particularly enjoy.

I should take her to the healers' district. That's the logical choice. The Temple of Dreams runs an orphanage, and there is a clinic within walking distance that would take in a foundling I'm sure. Professional caregivers with actual experience, proper facilities, resources I don't have.

But even as I think it, my stomach churns.

I've seen those places. Clean, efficient, understaffed. The children get fed, clothed, educated in basic trades. They survive. Most of them, anyway. The lucky ones find apprenticeships or get adopted by families looking for extra hands. The unlucky ones...

The unlucky ones disappear into Sarziroch's underbelly the moment they come of age. Brothels, fighting pits, worse things that don't have names in polite company.

This little one shifts against my chest, making a soft sound that's not quite contentment but close enough. Her golden eyes have drifted shut, thick dark lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. She trusts me completely—a trust I haven't earned and definitely don't deserve.

What am I doing?

I'm a guard. I kill people for a living. I follow orders and ask minimal questions and go home to my empty quarters every night without a care in the world. Children aren't part of that equation. They never have been.

Except for Nalla.

But Nalla came with Liora, and Liora belongs to Rovak. I just happened to be there when they needed someone to watch the kid occasionally, someone to make her laugh when her mother was having a difficult day. That's different from... this.

This is me standing in a burned-out alley, holding an orphaned infant, and seriously considering upending my entire life for reasons I can't articulate.

I start walking toward the healers' district anyway. Not because I've made a decision, but because standing still feels like giving up. The infant—she really does need a name—stays perfectly quiet against my chest, one tiny fist tangled in the fabric of my shirt.

The Temple of Dreams rises ahead of me, its white stone walls gleaming in the afternoon sun. I've been here before, usually delivering messages or escorting merchants who needed official documentation. The priests are decent enough, and the orphanage has a solid reputation.

I stop at the base of the temple steps.

Dozens of children play in the courtyard behind iron gates—clean, healthy, supervised. A few of them notice me and wave, their faces bright with the kind of innocence that won't last long in a place like Sarziroch. The older ones, maybe eight or nine years old, watch me with sharper eyes. They know better than to trust strange adults bearing gifts.

The infant in my arms stirs, making a soft murmuring sound that goes straight through me. When I look down, those golden eyes are open again, focused on my face with an intensity that shouldn't be possible at her age.

Nalla looked at me like that once.

It was maybe six months after Liora and Rovak finally stopped dancing around each other and admitted what everyone already knew. Nalla had been fussing all morning—teething, Liora thought—and nothing seemed to help. Rovak was handling trade negotiations, Liora was exhausted, and somehow I ended up walking the corridors with a cranky toddler draped over my shoulder.

She'd been crying for the better part of an hour when she suddenly went quiet. I thought maybe she'd finally worn herself out, but when I shifted her to check, she was staring at me with those pale gold eyes, studying my face like she was memorizing every detail.

Then she'd reached up with one chubby hand and touched the tip of my horn, gentle as anything. Like she was saying thank you.

That's when I knew I was completely fucked where that kid was concerned.

Now here I am, seven months later, holding another child with the same devastating combination of vulnerability and trust, and my brain is apparently determined to make the same mistake twice.

I climb three steps toward the temple entrance before my feet refuse to move any further.

What if they can't find her a family? What if she ends up in one of the work houses, learning to mend sails or clean chimneys for eighteen hours a day? What if some bastard takes her in just long enough to break her spirit before throwing her back on the streets?

What if she forgets that someone once held her like she mattered?

The thought makes me feel sick. I've seen what happens to foundlings who never learn their own worth. They become targets, victims, prey for anyone stronger or crueler or more desperate. This little one deserves better than that.

She deserves what Nalla has—protection, stability, people who give a damn whether she lives or dies.

"Shit," I mutter, backing away from the temple steps.

The infant makes another soft sound, and when I look down, she's watching me with those enormous eyes. There's something almost knowing in her expression, like she understands exactly what I'm thinking and approves of my cowardice.

"You're going to ruin my life, aren't you?" I ask her quietly.

She doesn't answer, obviously, but her tiny hand tightens its grip on my shirt.

I turn away from the temple and head toward the residential district instead. Not toward home—not yet—but in that general direction. Each step feels like I'm walking deeper into something I can't take back, but the alternative makes my chest feel hollow.

The healers' clinic on Merchant's Row would be another option. Dr. Vex runs a clean operation, takes in strays and foundlings without asking too many questions. But she's also practical to a fault. If this little one has any health issues, any complications that make her difficult to place...

No.

The thought of those golden eyes going dull and hopeless is enough to make my decision for me.

I keep walking, past the clinic, past the smaller temples, past every reasonable option for someone who isn't completely losing his mind. The infant settles more comfortably against my chest, her breathing evening out into the steady rhythm of sleep.

She trusts me.

That's the problem. That's what makes this so goddamn dangerous. She's already decided I'm her person, the same way Nalla decided Rovak was hers within five minutes of meeting him. And like the absolute fool I apparently am, I'm starting to think she might be right.

By the time I reach the edge of the estate district, my shirt is damp with sweat and my resolve is hanging by a thread. The logical part of my brain keeps listing all the reasons this is a terrible idea. I don't know anything about caring for an infant. I work unpredictable hours. My quarters aren't set up for a child.

But every time I consider turning around, going back to one of those institutions, the infant shifts against me and that hollow feeling returns to my chest.

Rovak's estate comes into view, its familiar walls and towers looking both welcoming and intimidating. In a few minutes, I'll have to explain to my commander—my friend—why I've shown up with someone else's child and no reasonable plan for what comes next.

The infant opens her eyes as if sensing my anxiety, and for a moment we just look at each other. Her expression is serious, almost solemn, but there's something else there too. Determination, maybe. Like she's made her choice and now she's waiting for me to catch up.

"You don't make anything easy, do you?" I murmur.

She closes her eyes again, apparently satisfied that I'm not going anywhere.