Page 18 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

Her gaze drifts to the pines overhead. “Still. You didn’t have to risk yourself wandering off. Silas volunteered…”

“I’m more capable of evading elves,” I reply, letting the words hang. A faint tension lingers between us, the awareness that we rely on each other for survival, yet neither truly knows the other’s motives.

Calla shifts on her feet, glancing sidelong at me. “Are you…” She hesitates. “Are you holding up? You fought that hound, used all those abilities, then ran off into the woods.”

Her concern is disarming, given the circumstances. I tilt my head, meeting her gaze. “I’ve survived worse.”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips, though sadness lingers in her eyes. “I’m beginning to think you might’ve survived everything.”

I say nothing, letting the words settle. The truth is, I survived too long. I can’t speak of that yet—how the centuries of captivity eroded my sense of self, how my hatred for House Vaerathis once fueled me until hatred was all I knew. And now, that singular purpose has fractured. Because of her. Because I find myself caring whether she lives or dies.

A breeze stirs her damp hair, and my eyes snag on the line of her jaw, the curve of her lips. I sense her heartbeat quicken. She draws a breath, and in the dark, we stand closer than we should, tension coiling like a living thing between us.

It’d be easy to forget the danger—just for a moment—and indulge in the warmth of her presence. But a lifetime of caution keeps me from stepping forward. Instead, I clear my throat and look away. She does the same, wrapping her arms around herself.

I shift, peering into the forest’s distant shadows. “We should head south at first light, as planned. There’s a chance to find more resources—maybe even a remote settlement that tolerates humans.”

“Humans,” she repeats with a hollow laugh. “You make it sound like you’re not one.”

I almost flinch. “I’m not.” The words slip out like a confession. “I don’t look like one. What makes you think I am? I’m a demon.”

She studies me, eyes reflecting moonlight. “I don’t understand how that happened… or why. But I see how you carry that pain.” Her hand lifts, as if to reach for my forearm again, but she stops short. “I won’t pry, if you don’t want me to.”

A surge of conflicting emotions hits me. I want to confide in her—tell her how Varzun Vaerathis tried to fuse his essence with mine in a corrupted ritual, how that left me stranded between mortality and the demonic. But revealing too much puts her in greater danger. The elf that cursed me is still out there, waiting to reclaim what he believes is his. For centuries, he was my nightmare. Now, possibly, I am his.

Instead, I murmur, “You deserve answers. Not now. But soon.”

She exhales, nodding. “All right.” The hush returns, broken only by an owl’s distant call.

When she finally drifts back to the makeshift camp, lying down near Jenna, I remain watchful. My chest tightens with strange tension, an unfamiliar ache that isn’t physical wounds.No attachments, I used to tell myself.Nothing but revenge.Now that clarity is muddied by her presence, by the spark in her gaze. By the way my name—Daeva—sounds on her lips.

Dawn comes in a dreary haze, gray light dripping through the pines. Silas and Cole rustle awake, their limbs stiff and sore, while Ryn checks Jenna’s fever. She’s cooler than before, though still weak and delirious.

Calla passes the leftover silverleaf brew to Jenna in small sips. Jenna accepts, then slumps back, eyes half-lidded. It’s not a cure, but it’s hope.

We set off southward again, treading through the rain-soaked forest. The morning air hangs heavy, the hush broken only by the squelch of our footsteps and the occasional cough from Jenna. I carry her once more—her weight even lighter than before, frighteningly so.

Cole rummages through the underbrush, collecting any mushrooms or wild berries he finds. We test them carefully, mindful not to poison ourselves. The meager morsels only staveoff hunger pangs. Our progress is slow, each mile a battle against soggy ground and battered bodies.

At midday—if one can call this dim wash of light “day”—the terrain changes. Tall pines give way to looming firs and jagged boulders. Moss-draped stones rise like ancient sentinels, their faces carved by centuries of wind and rain. The path becomes a narrow defile between rocky outcroppings, and I pause, scanning for ambush.

The air here is stale, heavy with the scent of damp earth. A line of scraggly shrubs grows near the cliff walls. I’m about to urge the others onward when a shrill cry echoes behind us—too close for comfort. Something in that cry speaks of malice, not a mere animal’s call.

“Get behind the rocks,” I bark, voice tight.

Silas and Cole scramble to the left. Ryn tries to lead Calla around a boulder on the right, but the ground crumbles, sending a small landslide of loose gravel tumbling. Jenna moans in my arms. We press ourselves against the stone face, hearts pounding.

A thunder of hooves resonates, but not the refined canter of elven horses. This is heavier, more uneven. My instincts scream.Orcs? Another kind of monster?

A moment later, three hulking shapes clatter into view atop rangy, pale-furred beasts. They skid to a halt on the wet ground. Crude iron armor glints dully. My eyes narrow. Orc raiders. They roam these forests in roving warbands, scavenging and killing wherever they see advantage.

One orc leans forward, scanning the defile. A scar runs across his broad, greenish jaw, and his face contorts in suspicion. He hefts a wickedly spiked mace, sniffing the air.

Next to me, Calla’s expression betrays alarm. She and Ryn are pinned behind a small boulder. Silas and Cole are across from us, flattening themselves against the rock. I sense themtrembling. Orcs are rarely friendly to humans; slaves hold no value to them except for trade or cruelty.

Quietly, I set Jenna down behind me, leaning her against the stone. Her eyelids flutter, but she’s too weak to protest. My powers stir, but exhaustion weighs heavily on me. If I fight, I must do so swiftly.

The orc with the mace barks something in a guttural tongue. The second orc dismounts, brandishing a spear. The third wields a crossbow of dwarven make—likely looted from a caravan. They’re methodical, scanning for ambush. If they spot us, they’ll attack, no question.

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