The town had no name that anyone could remember, which suited Azerin perfectly. Nestled in a valley between rolling hills, it was the sort of place that existed in the margins of maps, significant only to the people who called it home. Sarah had directed him here with the practical kindness that seemed to define her every action, pressing a small pouch of copper coins into his hand despite his protests.
"Everyone deserves a chance to start over," she had said, her eyes holding depths of compassion that made his chest ache in ways he didn't understand. "Even people running from something they can't name."
He had wanted to tell her she was wrong, that some people—some monsters—didn't deserve second chances. But the words had died in his throat, smothered by the growing realization that arguing the point would require explaining exactly what he was running from.
Now, standing at the edge of the town's main thoroughfare in the early morning light, Azerin felt the full weight of his new vulnerability. The street was already bustling with activity despite the early hour—merchants setting up their stalls, children darting between the legs of adults on mysterious errands, the constant hum of people going about the business of living.
It was overwhelming in ways he hadn't anticipated. For centuries, he had observed human communities from positions of power—as conqueror, as predator, as something fundamentally separate from their mortality. Now he was among them, subject to the same physical laws, the same limitations, the same needs that drove their daily routines.
A small girl, perhaps six years old, ran directly into his legs in her haste to chase what appeared to be a escaped chicken. She bounced off him and landed hard in the dirt, her face already screwing up for what promised to be a spectacular wail.
Azerin's first instinct was to step away, to distance himself before the situation could become complicated. But something about the child's expression—shock transitioning to hurt, the trembling lower lip that spoke of imminent tears—triggered a response he hadn't expected.
He knelt down, bringing himself to her eye level, and extended a hand to help her up. "Are you hurt?"
The girl studied him with the frank curiosity that children possessed before they learned to fear strangers. "You're very pale," she observed matter-of-factly.
"I don't get much sun," he replied, surprised by the gentleness in his own voice.
She accepted this explanation with the easy logic of childhood and allowed him to help her to her feet. "I'm chasing Henrietta," she announced, pointing toward the chicken, which had taken advantage of their conversation to disappear around a corner. "She's very naughty."
When did I last speak to a child who wasn't screaming? When did I last see one who looked at me without terror?
"Perhaps Henrietta is just exploring," Azerin suggested. "Sometimes creatures need to see what's beyond the boundaries they know."
The girl considered this with the seriousness that children brought to philosophical discussions. "Mama says exploring is good, but you have to come home for supper."
Before he could respond, a woman's voice called out across the square. "Emma! There you are!" The voice carried the particular note of parental concern that suggested Emma was a frequent escapee.
The woman hurrying toward them was young, probably the girl's sister rather than her mother, with the kind of practical beauty that came from honest work and genuine warmth. Her dress was simple but well-made, and her hair was pulled back in a style that suggested efficiency over fashion.
"I'm sorry," she said, reaching them slightly out of breath. "Emma has a talent for disappearing when there's work to be done." Her eyes met Azerin's, and he saw the polite wariness that adults reserved for strangers. "I hope she wasn't bothering you."
"Not at all," Azerin replied, rising to his full height. "She was pursuing an escaped chicken. Henrietta, I believe."
The woman's expression shifted from wariness to amusement. "Ah, the Great Henrietta Hunt. It's a daily occurrence, I'm afraid." She extended her hand in the casual greeting common to small communities. "I'm Anna Mills. You're new to town."
It wasn't a question. In a place this small, everyone would know everyone, and a stranger would be noted within hours of arrival. Azerin accepted her handshake, noting the calluses that spoke of physical labor and the strength in her grip.
"I am," he confirmed, realizing he needed a name to offer in return. His real name was too distinctive, too dangerous. "I'm... Azer. Azer Cole."
The abbreviated version felt strange on his tongue, but it would have to suffice. He watched Anna's face for any sign of recognition, but she showed only the polite interest of someone meeting a potential new neighbor.
"Well, Azer Cole, welcome to our little corner of nowhere," Anna said with a smile that transformed her entire face. "Are you passing through, or might you be staying?"
The question hung in the air, loaded with implications he hadn't fully considered. Staying meant establishing an identity, creating a life, becoming part of a community. It meant pretending to be human not just physically, but socially, emotionally. It meant lying, constantly and comprehensively, to people who had done nothing to deserve deception.
But what was the alternative? He couldn't survive indefinitely in the wilderness, and every other settlement posed the same challenges as this one. At least here, no one seemed inclined to ask pointed questions about his past.
"I'm considering staying," he said carefully. "If there's work to be found."
Anna's smile widened. "There's always work for someone willing to do it. What's your trade?"
Conquest. Murder. The systematic destruction of human hope. Somehow I doubt there's much call for that in a farming community.
"I'm... between trades at the moment," he said. "But I'm willing to learn."
Something in his tone must have conveyed more than he intended, because Anna's expression softened with what looked suspiciously like sympathy. "We've all been between trades at some point. The important thing is the willingness to start over."
Emma, who had been growing increasingly impatient with the adult conversation, tugged on Anna's skirt. "Can we find Henrietta now? She's probably all the way to the river by now."
Anna laughed, a sound that was warm and genuine and utterly free of the calculated amusement Azerin remembered from his court. "Of course, little one. Duty calls," she said to Azerin. "If you're serious about finding work, you might try the bookshop on Elm Street. Old Marcus has been talking about needing help with the heavier lifting."
A bookshop. The idea had an unexpected appeal. Books were knowledge, and knowledge was power—though apparently not the kind of power he was accustomed to wielding. Still, it would be quiet work, away from the constant scrutiny of a more public trade.
"Thank you," he said, meaning it more than she could possibly know.
As Anna and Emma disappeared around the corner in pursuit of the wayward Henrietta, Azerin found himself standing alone in the middle of the town square, surrounded by the gentle chaos of human life. Children played, adults worked, elderly folks sat on benches sharing gossip and wisdom. It was peaceful in a way that made his chest tight with emotions he couldn't name.
For centuries, he had looked upon scenes like this as a predator sizing up prey. The vulnerability had been glaring, the weaknesses obvious, the potential for exploitation endless. Now, seeing it through mortal eyes, he was struck by something entirely different—the courage it took to build something beautiful knowing how fragile it was, the determination to create joy in a world that offered no guarantees.
Every person he could see had faced hardships he had never had to consider—illness, poverty, loss, the constant awareness of mortality. Yet here they were, laughing with their children, tending their gardens, building lives that mattered even though they knew those lives would end.
How many towns like this did I destroy? How many Emma's did I leave orphaned? How many Anna's did I leave grieving?
The guilt crashed over him with such force that he had to lean against a nearby wall to keep from staggering. This was the true punishment of Elara's curse—not the loss of power, but the gain of perspective. Every human interaction now carried the weight of all the interactions he had prevented, all the lives he had cut short, all the communities he had burned to ash for no better reason than convenience.
But beneath the guilt, something else was stirring—something that might have been hope, if he had dared to name it. These people had accepted him, however tentatively. They had offered help without expectation of reward. They had shown him kindness despite having no reason to trust him.
Perhaps Elara had been right. Perhaps redemption wasn't about undoing the past, but about choosing differently in the present. Perhaps the question wasn't whether he deserved forgiveness, but whether he could become worthy of the chances he was being given.
As he pushed away from the wall and began walking toward Elm Street, Azerin made a decision that would have been unthinkable just weeks before. He was going to try—really try—to be the man these people thought he was. Not the monster he had been, but the human he might yet become.
And maybe, if he was very careful and very lucky, he wouldn't destroy this beautiful, fragile place in the process.