Page 17 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

I skirt around a thick cluster of ferns, scanning the forest floor by the thin moonlight that occasionally filters through a break in the storm clouds. I recall silverleaf thrives in damp, shadowy glens. My memory is hazy; I can’t be sure I’ll recognize it, but the name alone conjures an image: slender leaves with a pale underside that shimmers faintly under the moon.

A scrape of boots on stone. Instantly, I freeze, adrenaline spiking. Several paces to my left, behind a curtain of hanging moss, I catch the faint outline of a figure. Light flickers, possibly a lantern or glowstone. Elves.

I inhale quietly, pressing against the moss-draped trunk of a fallen cedar. Heartbeats pass, slow and steady. There must be two, maybe three elves. Their voices carry in the hush:

“—they came through here, I’m certain,” one says in clipped Elvish.

Another answers, “We’ll comb the area to the south. If the hound found them once, it can do so again—assuming it’s not dead. Keep your eyes peeled.”

I grit my teeth. The memory of that demon hound’s rancid breath still lingers in my mind. I dealt it a harsh blow; whether it lives or not, I can’t say, but it hasn’t reappeared yet. If these elves have another one…

Before I can finish the thought, the nearest elf steps closer, torchlight washing over the rough bark. I see a glint of steel and the polished red insignia on his cloak. They’re from Vaerathis, all right.

I consider ambushing them. My powers could smother them before they call for help—maybe. But the risk is steep. If even one escapes, it’ll bring a flood of reinforcements down on us. And if I’m forced to unleash too much magic, I might lose control in my current weakened state. The last time I truly unleashed my fury, entire corridors burned and twisted, and I can’t afford that chaos with mortals so close by.

Carefully, I begin to inch backward, silent as the grave. The light shifts again, and the elves continue forward, scanning the undergrowth in the opposite direction. Once their voices fade, I slip away, heading deeper into a slope thick with rotting logs.

My chest tightens.Focus on the silverleaf.

It takes me several more minutes—ducking beneath low branches, sliding down a muddy ravine, and nearly tumbling into a slick pool of stagnant water—before I find what might be the plant in question. Beneath a tangle of brambles, small leaves glimmer faintly in the murky gloom. I kneel, brushing aside the thorns. The underside of each leaf catches the dim moonlight with a soft gleam, and a faint, fresh scent teases my nostrils.

Silverleaf. Relief floods through me. I tear off several sprigs, careful to keep the roots if possible. The pungent scent intensifies, stinging my sinuses. It’s an old memory come to life:Yes, this is it.

Cautiously, I climb back up the ravine, searching for signs of the elves. My senses remain on high alert, but the night is still except for the rainfall. Eventually, I retrace my route to the clearing—no sign of pursuit. When I slip through the pines, I find Silas pacing in agitation while Cole stands watch, squinting into the dark. They both sag with relief when they see me.

“I was worried,” Silas admits, stepping aside so I can pass.

I nod curtly and hurry to Jenna’s side. She’s half-conscious, murmuring feverish words. Calla props her up, lips pressed tight. Ryn hovers, face grim.

“I found it,” I say, holding out the silverleaf. “We need to steep it. Heat would be ideal, but building a fire is risky.”

Calla swallows, pushing her damp hair off her forehead. “Let me see if we can gather enough dry tinder for a small flame. If we do it under the pine trunk, maybe it won’t be visible.”

Silas and Ryn exchange anxious looks. Cole steps forward. “I’ll help. Quietly.”

Within minutes, they scrounge some half-dry kindling from beneath logs, pine boughs, even scraps of cloth. I keep watch while Calla works with Silas to spark a tiny flame using friction and a bit of flint. The hiss of ignition is barely audible over the rain, but the small circle of firelight seems glaringly bright in this gloom.

Calla cups her hands around the flame, sheltering it from the drizzle. Once it steadies, I kneel, shredding the silverleaf into a piece of cloth we can dunk in water. Ryn finds an old tin bowl in his bag—pilfered from the fortress, no doubt—and we fill it with water from the puddles that have collected in the trunk’s hollow. The water is murky, but we have little choice.

With delicate care, Calla holds the bowl over the small flames, ignoring how the steam scalds her hands. I deposit the shredded leaves into the warming water, stirring them with a twig until the liquid turns a pale green. A sharp, herbal aroma wafts upward.

Jenna stirs again, wincing. “Where…?” she croaks.

“Easy,” Calla murmurs, blowing on the brew to cool it. “Just sip.”

I lift Jenna’s head, pressing the bowl to her lips. She sips, face scrunching at the bitter taste. Some dribbles down her chin,but she manages a few swallows. Then she falls back into semi-consciousness, exhaustion claiming her. We have no guarantee this will save her, but at least we’ve done all we can.

Silas extinguishes the fire, scattering the embers into the soaked soil. Darkness settles back around us like a cloak. The hush that follows leaves us with nothing but the drum of raindrops.

Time slips away. At some point, the rain eases to a drizzle, and a thin sliver of moonlight pierces the sky. Everyone except me is half-dozing in the aftermath of tension and fatigue. Even Calla rests her head against a root, eyes closed. I stand at the clearing, arms folded, scanning the forest. My body aches in ways it never did before captivity. The toll of centuries inside that mirror has weakened me, and I despise the feeling.

Footsteps approach behind me, so light I almost miss them. But I turn to see Calla, her expression softer than usual, the bruise on her temple stark in the moonlight.

“You should sleep,” I say quietly, though the concern in my tone surprises even me.

She shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest. “I can’t. Every time I try, I keep imagining the elves storming in. Or I see Jenna dying.” She takes a measured breath. “Thank you for finding the silverleaf.”

I nod. “Better than letting her bleed to death.”

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