Zahir pressed his thumb against the pulsing birthmark on his arm. The sensation had started again this morning, faint but steady. He pulled out his hidden journal and added another sketch to the dozens already there. Each page showed a different demon he'd seen, a different pattern of throbs and tingles. Somewhere in these records was the answer he needed. One of these demons knew something about his missing parent. His hand moved to trace patterns in the sand at his feet while he studied the drawings. The birthmark quieted. He snapped the journal shut and tucked it back into his shirt. The old theater rose ahead, half-buried in drifted sand. Zahir had discovered it three weeks ago while following a demon that made his birthmark burn cold. The Desert Mirage Cinema still had its faded sign hanging crooked over the entrance. Inside, the seats were gone but the projection booth remained intact. He'd claimed it as his own, stashing his journals in the locked cabinet behind the torn screen. No one else came here. The building gave him space to study his records without questions. He climbed through the broken window and headed straight for his hiding spot. Tonight he would compare the last month of sketches. The patterns had to mean something. His demon parent's identity was buried in these pages somewhere, and he would find it.

Zahir flipped through his journal pages, scanning the demon sketches he'd made over the past month. Each drawing showed different features—horns, wings, scaled skin. Beneath each sketch, he'd noted how his birthmark had reacted. Some made it pulse hot. Others turned it ice cold. A few caused it to flutter like a heartbeat. He arranged the pages on the dusty floor of the projection booth, searching for connections. His finger traced the air above them, moving from one sketch to another. The patterns were there. He could feel it. One demon with curved horns had made his birthmark throb in steady beats. Another with the same horn shape did the same thing two weeks later. Zahir grabbed his charcoal and circled both sketches. His hand moved faster now, finding more matches. Three demons with silver eyes. Four with ridged foreheads. Each group triggered the same reaction. He sat back and stared at his work. The demons weren't random. They were related somehow, and his birthmark knew it. One of these groups would lead him to answers about his missing parent. He gathered his sketches and tucked them into his shirt. The theater had given him space to find the patterns, but patterns weren't enough. He needed names, histories, family lines. Somewhere there had to be records that matched these demon features to actual bloodlines. Zahir climbed back through the broken window and started walking. Two hours later, he spotted it—a small building with faded letters above the door and shelves visible through dusty windows. Books lined the walls inside, stacks of them reaching toward the ceiling. Someone had turned this old library into a home, but the records remained. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The air smelled like old paper and sun-baked wood. His fingers traced patterns against his leg as he moved between the shelves, reading spines and labels. Then he found them—three thick volumes marked with demon clan symbols. He pulled the first book down and opened it. Page after page showed family trees, physical traits, and territorial markers. His birthmark warmed against his arm. This was it. This was where he would find the truth.

Zahir pushed the demon genealogy book back onto the shelf and stepped away from the library stacks. The volumes had given him clan names and bloodline markers, but he needed something more—a place where demons themselves gathered, where he could watch them and test his birthmark against living subjects instead of old drawings. His fingers drummed against his leg as he thought. Then it came to him. The market district. Demons passed through there every day, buying supplies and trading goods. He could station himself near the fountain where the crowds gathered thickest. His birthmark would tell him which ones mattered, and he could follow the ones that triggered the strongest reactions. Zahir pulled his journal from his shirt and flipped to a blank page, sketching a quick map of the market's layout and marking the best observation points. This was where he'd find them—the demons connected to his parent. The market sprawled ahead of him an hour later, busy with morning traders. Zahir wove through the crowds until he spotted the carved stone figures rising from the square's center. The pyramid of statues stood taller than three men, each demon face worn smooth by wind and time. He moved closer, studying the eroded features. These were old bloodlines, memorials to demon families that had lived here generations ago. His birthmark tingled as he reached toward the nearest figure. The sensation spread up his arm, warm and insistent. Zahir pulled out his journal and began sketching the statue's horn shape and jaw structure. If these honored the major demon families, then his records might match one of them. He traced patterns in the sand with his foot while he worked, comparing each stone face to his previous drawings. The third figure from the bottom made his birthmark pulse hard and steady—the same rhythm that three living demons had triggered before. His hand moved to clutch his arm. This was it. This statue marked the bloodline he'd been tracking. The answer to his parent's identity stood right here in stone.