Page 26 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

Amalia touches Dirroth’s chest, right over the place where the glowing aura churns. “Calm,” she tells him softly. “They’ve not threatened us.” Then she looks at me, her gaze lingeringon the markings along my arms. “You… you’re different. I feel magic in you, but it’s twisted. Demonic.”

I stiffen. She’s perceptive. That shouldn’t surprise me—anyone who can live among waira must have sharp instincts. “Yes,” I say simply. “But that doesn’t mean we wish you harm.”

Dirroth’s lip curls, exposing uneven fangs. “Humans. Demons. Elves. All the same. They come, they hunt, they kill. Dirroth kills first.”

I brace for an attack, dark power coiling in my fingertips. My entire body tenses. If it comes to a fight, I’m not sure we’ll survive. Fighting a waira is no simple feat, especially not in its home territory—and we have an injured woman to protect. Even if I muster my magic, I’m hardly at full capacity.

Amalia steps between us, raising her arms. “Wait,” she insists, looking up at Dirroth. “They’re in trouble, obviously. Someone is wounded.” Her eyes flick to Jenna’s pallid face. “And that man—” She points at me, “—he’s carrying around a demon’s aura. Perhaps we can learn something.”

Dirroth exhales a long, rattling breath. His eyes remain fixed on me, and the glow in his torso pulses, shifting from green to a flicker of orange and back again. A silent standoff grips the clearing.

Slowly, I lower my guard, though I remain ready to unleash force if needed. “Let us pass,” I say. “We can move on.”

Dirroth’s claw drags a furrow in the ground, red eyes narrowing. “You found your way to my domain. I have questions. You will answer.”

Amalia’s expression is apologetic. “We don’t often get visitors.” She glances back at Calla and the others, her gaze softening at Jenna’s obvious pain. “Look, Dirroth isn’t going to let you cross unless he’s sure you mean no harm. And… I can’t let him kill you.” Her voice tightens with quiet resolve. “If we offeryou a place to rest for the night, will you talk? Then we’ll see about letting you move on.”

Calla casts me a worried look. Silas tightens his grip on the crossbow, uncertain. But we have little choice. We’re too spent, especially with Jenna’s condition. Engaging a waira on its turf would be suicidal. The only path that might grant survival is cooperation.

I nod once. “We’ll talk.”

Dirroth scowls, but Amalia’s hand upon his arm soothes him marginally. His essence glows a steady greenish hue, still territorial, but no longer raging. He gestures with a bony claw, beckoning us to follow. My group hesitates, exchanging apprehensive glances, but in the end, we trail after the waira and his human mate into the deeper forest.

The lair Dirrothleads us to is a shallow cave carved into a hillside. The entrance is partially concealed by a tumble of rocks and dense underbrush. Inside, the space is surprisingly neat—if you ignore the faint coppery smell and the scattered bones near the rear. A small fire pit rests in the center, ringed by stones. Animal furs are piled along one wall, forming a sort of bed or lounge area. The flickering light from a single torch reveals more details of Dirroth’s physiology: elongated limbs, fur clinging to parts of his torso, the rest an unsettling mix of sinew and bone.

Amalia lights the fire with practiced ease, using a piece of flint. Her posture is relaxed, as if she does this every day. Dirroth stays near the entrance, glaring at us from the gloom. The flicker of his aura—still that mix of green and a faint swirl of yellow—suggests curiosity, though I doubt he’d admit it.

“Sit,” Amalia invites. “I can’t say we have the best accommodations, but you’ll be sheltered from the elements.”Her voice is steady as she looks over Jenna’s weakened form. “Let me see if I can help with that wound.”

Cole helps Jenna to the edge of the fire pit, gently lowering her. She looks uneasy, clutching Ryn’s hand, but she nods at Amalia in thanks. Amalia produces a pouch of herbs from somewhere and begins examining the bandage. Despite the tension, the human woman’s presence is oddly comforting—she exudes a confidence that none of us expected in such a macabre environment.

Silas remains standing, crossbow half raised, as though ready to defend himself at any second. Calla tries to calm him with a hand on his arm. I approach Dirroth carefully, wanting to gauge him. The waira shifts, eyeing me with suspicion.

“You are demon,” he rasps. “Yet not… fully. I smell something human in your blood.”

My gut clenches. “Your nose is sharp,” I say, my tone guarded.

Dirroth’s reply is a rough snort. “If you’re lying about your intentions, I will devour you all.” He drags a claw along the stone in a warning scrape. “Amalia says I must be patient, but Dirroth does not like being patient.”

I arch a brow. “I’m not lying. We just want safety.” Glancing back at Calla, I note how she kneels by the fire, tension etched in her features. “We’ve been pursued by dark elves, orcs… We stumbled here by accident.”

He tilts his head, horns scraping the low ceiling. “Dark elves, yes. Tasty prey.” A crimson flicker dances in his chest, perhaps reminiscent of old hunts. “Orcs, savage. They threaten my forests too. But demon? That is new.” He leans closer, rancid breath washing over me. “You reek of old power.”

My stomach twists. I sense Calla’s gaze on me, but I keep my focus on Dirroth. “Then you know I’m not powerless.”

He huffs, amused or annoyed. “I’ll judge your power if the time comes.”

I step back, tension unspooling. We’ve reached a standoff of sorts—he won’t kill us outright, so long as we abide by some unwritten code. Maybe that’s enough for tonight.

Amalia finishes binding Jenna’s shoulder with fresh herbs and cloth. “She’ll need rest,” she tells Calla softly, wiping her hands on her cloak. “At least a night or two, if Dirroth allows.”

Dirroth lets out a grumbling sigh. “Amalia, you always want to help,” he accuses, though there’s a begrudging warmth in his tone, as if he’s incapable of denying her entirely.

Amalia quirks a smile at him, then beckons me closer. I comply, noticing the shift in her eyes as she studies me. “You hide something else,” she says quietly, glancing at my arms and the faint glow of black markings. “That demon magic weighs on your soul. You haven’t told your companions about the price, have you?”

I stiffen, uncertain how to respond. She saw something in me with just a glance? The others, busy trying not to anger Dirroth, might not overhear, but I feel Calla’s attention drifting our way.

“You’ve read me quickly,” I admit.

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