Page 25 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

As dusk slips her dark fingers across the sky, I gather up the last of the damp rags. My eyes stray to Daeva’s silhouette, haloed by the dying light. He glances over his shoulder, our gazes colliding. Heat stirs in my cheeks, followed by a fierce rush of something that’s not quite fear and not quite longing, but a heady mix of both.

I know we can’t stay in this lull forever. Danger stalks our every step, and House Vaerathis won’t rest until they reclaim what they see as theirs—us, or him. But for tonight, I cling to the fragile comfort of a single truth: we’ve found each other in this world’s darkest corners, and somehow, that might make all the difference.

My stomach twists with anticipation for whatever tomorrow brings, whether it’s flight or confrontation. A soft sigh slips past my lips, and I settle by Jenna, offering her a reassuring pat on the hand. Above us, the stars blink into view between shiftingclouds, and I can’t help glancing one last time at Daeva, whose moonlit features betray a subtle tenderness beneath all that lethal power.

I don’t know what to call this feeling, but it crackles in the space between us like a spark waiting for kindling. And as dark as our world is, that spark is enough to set my heart racing, no matter how dangerous it might be to let it catch fire.

6

DAEVA

Ihold my breath as I guide our small party deeper into the forest’s shadows, one careful step at a time. Each footfall lands on soft soil or a bed of needles, muffling our presence. Overhead, looming pines and skeletal oaks twist together, swallowing most of the moonlight. The air is thick with an earthy, primal scent—a blend of old leaves, damp moss, and something faintly metallic that sets my nerves on edge.

We’ve traveled this route for hours, perhaps longer, shifting away from the calmer river valley where we camped last night. Now, the terrain transforms into a maze of thorny undergrowth and bizarrely shaped boulders that jut like beasts’ spines. The mortals behind me—Calla, Silas, Cole, Ryn, and the still-wounded Jenna—keep close, their breathing ragged with fatigue. Jenna’s fever has waned, but she’s frail and leaning against Ryn for support. There’s no sign of orcs or elf patrols at the moment, yet every instinct I possess warns me that something else prowls these depths.

I pause at a small clearing where the grass stands tall enough to brush my thighs. The wind here carries a strange odor: decay and something sweet, as though flowers have been crushedunder a rotting carcass. My stomach tightens in distaste. I remember whispers from old memories—faint recollections of creatures that dwell in remote corners, monstrous beings avoided even by the dark elves. Perhaps we’ve stumbled into their domain.

“Let’s rest,” Calla says softly behind me. Her voice, though quiet, resonates in the hush. “At least for a moment.”

I glance at her. Her hair clings to her cheeks, slick with sweat from the oppressive humidity. She tries to keep her expression calm, but I see the tension in her eyes. That same tension pulses through me whenever I look at her—an acute awareness that we share secrets neither of us fully comprehends yet. My chest twinges as I recall the moment by the river, where I nearly lost my composure seeing her in the moonlit water. A demon has no business longing for closeness. But once, I was human…

I exhale, shoving the memory aside. “Just for a moment,” I agree, voice low. “We shouldn’t linger here. The trees… feel wrong.”

Silas moves closer to Calla, crossbow in hand. He’s protective of her; that’s always been clear. He notices how my gaze lingers and sets his jaw, displeased. But we have no time for petty conflict. Right now, survival trumps everything else.

Cole and Ryn find a spot to settle Jenna against a trunk, carefully lowering her to the ground. She sighs with relief. They begin rummaging for a canteen. We have precious little water left—no streams in sight since morning. The dryness of my own throat reminds me we’ll need to find another source soon.

I crouch near a mossy log, scanning the perimeter. The forest is silent—no birds, no insects, just the slow hiss of wind through branches. Then I feel it, a faint tremor in the air, like a heartbeat. It’s reminiscent of magic, but primal, raw. A memory stirs, whispering of flesh-eaters known as waira. I’d heard scattered rumors in ages past. They were said to lurk inremote mountains, feeding on anything unfortunate enough to cross their path. Grotesque, cunning, territorial. The dark elves avoided them out of fear—or so the stories claimed.

A creeping dread threads through my veins. If we’ve entered waira territory, we need to leave. Swiftly. My eyes dart toward Jenna. She’s barely upright. Speed will be a problem.

“Daeva?” Calla’s voice is soft, almost apologetic. “You sense something, don’t you?”

I stand, scanning the gloom. “We’re not alone,” I say quietly. “We need to move, find a safer place to make camp.”

The others don’t question me. We gather our meager supplies and press forward. The tension among us deepens with each step, like a chord pulled ever tighter. Calla keeps near my elbow, occasionally brushing my arm—a brief contact that forces me to swallow hard and refocus. I can’t let her distract me. Not now, not with that ominous smell thickening the air.

We push through a bramble-choked path and emerge into a small hollow of twisted trees. My heart jolts at the sight looming there: a tall, skeletal figure perched amid the roots of a gnarled oak. The shape has an elongated animal skull—perhaps deer-like, with two jagged horns—and a body that’s both humanoid and hideously malformed. Ribs protrude like pale bars, partially covered by patches of matted fur. Between the gaps in its chest, a glow pulses a sickly green. Its eyes—mere pinpoints of red light—track our movements with unnerving stillness.

I hear Silas inhale sharply. Cole mutters a curse. Ryn clutches Jenna protectively. The waira cocks its head, a low growl vibrating through the clearing. One of its clawed hands digs into the soil, stirring rotted leaves and stirring that nauseating sweet-rot stench.

Beside it stands a figure I nearly mistake for a child at first. But no—she’s a woman, a human, shorter than Calla, wrapped in a ragged cloak. Her hair is braided in a loose, practical style, andher eyes are keen, flickering to us with tension. She’s touching the waira’s arm as if calming it.

I clench my fists. The presence of a human with this… monstrosity is inconceivable at first glance. How could she survive among them? Yet she stands unafraid. The waira, though it bristles, doesn’t strike.

“Ssstay away,” the waira rasps, its voice like stone scraping stone. Its body stiffens, revealing rows of fangs behind the skeletal muzzle. “This is Dirroth’s territory. You. Do. Not. Belong.”

The woman puts a hand on Dirroth’s bony forearm. “They look exhausted,” she murmurs, her tone far calmer than the situation warrants. “Let me speak to them.”

Dirroth huffs, glowing essence flickering a shade of green tinged with ominous orange. Territorial anger. The woman steps forward carefully, arms raised to show she’s unarmed. Despite her caution, she radiates a certain confidence.

“My name’s Amalia,” she says, voice pitched to carry across the tense silence. “You’ve wandered into Dirroth’s domain. He doesn’t like trespassers. Especially not so many.”

I step between my group and the waira, holding up a hand. “We mean no trouble,” I reply evenly. “We’re only passing through—looking for safety.”

At my side, Calla extends a trembling hand in a show of peace. “Please,” she adds, her voice less steady than mine but still earnest. “We have an injured companion. We just want to?—”

Dirroth’s growl intensifies, cutting her off. His massive claws scrape the dirt. “All intruders say that,” he snarls, voice deep and guttural. “They come to steal my territory… my hunts… or they come for me.”

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