Page 53 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

He listens, silent. My heart races, fear and hope tangling in my chest. “Each ritual, each bond, it’s a thread in a tapestry. The House wants to weave it to their design, but we can tug the threads free if we’re brave enough. Yes, we’re battered. Yes, every path seems doomed. But water changes direction whennew rivers flow into it. So does destiny, when two souls refuse to be shaped by it.”

A tear of blood slips down my cheek. Daeva’s breath hitches, his hand brushing against mine. I sense the conflict raging in him. “You’re… too kind,” he whispers, voice raw. “After all I’ve done, all the pain this curse caused you?—”

I squeeze his fingers, ignoring the dull throb in my eyes. “I chose this. I choseyou.Maybe it ends in destruction, but maybe not. We can’t know unless we try.”

He bows his head, trembling. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he exhales, a tremor in the sound. “Then we face them in five days,” he concedes. “We find a way to break their hold on us. Or we die trying.”

A wave of exhaustion sweeps over me. But relief, oddly, mingles with it—an acceptance that we’ll no longer run, but stand. I lean my head on his shoulder, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. Our bodies ache, but for an instant, we share a fragile peace.

Outside, the rain slackens, leaving only the drip from the eaves. We remain entwined in the gloom, the flicker of dying firelight dancing across the broken walls. I can’t see the flames, but I feel their faint warmth on my face. I can’t see Daeva, yet I sense the shape of his body, the tension in his muscles, the unspoken devotion in his trembling breath. He’s as wounded as I am, trapped in this labyrinth of curses.

I rest my hand over his chest, sensing the slow rise and fall. “No matter what happens,” I whisper, “we meet them on our terms.”

He nods, voice barely above a breath. “We will.”

When fatigue claims me, I let it drag me under, comforted by the steady drum of his heartbeat. The path ahead is bleak, but the faint current of fate stirs in my veins, whispering that thetapestry of magic might yield to our combined wills. I choose to trust that, no matter the cost.

Hours later—or perhaps it’s the next morning—I stir from fitful sleep. My eyelids flutter, but the world remains dark. A sinking dread tries to take hold, but I force it down.Remember who you are, I tell myself.A blind woman with a demon’s bond, but still alive.My shoulder throbs anew, the bandages stiff with dried blood. My lips are parched, and a haze of hunger lingers.

Daeva must sense me stirring. He shifts, his presence immediately at my side. “Calla?”

I nod, or try to. “Still here,” I rasp.

He presses a cup to my lips. Water. I drink greedily, savoring the cool relief. My body quivers with gratitude at the faint nourishment.

In the hush, I recall the messenger’s final threat: five days. I have no sense of how many have passed. One? Two? Time is a blur in my sightless world. But Daeva and I will need every moment to regain enough strength to make the journey back to Vaerathis.

The thought twists my stomach. “We should plan,” I say, struggling to mask my fear. “We can’t just walk in unprepared.”

He exhales. “Agreed. But rest a bit more. The more we push ourselves, the slower we heal.”

A humorless laugh escapes me. “What good is healing if I can’t see?”

His silence stabs me. For all his demonic resilience, he has no miracle to restore my vision. My breath shudders, tears of frustration pooling behind the cloth.Yet I must keep going.

I shift carefully, wincing at a jolt of pain in my shoulder. Summoning courage, I reach out, fumbling until my hand finds his arm. “Daeva, show me how to move around. I can’t stay on this floor forever. I need… to adapt.”

He hesitates, then his tone softens. “All right. Lean on me.”

Thus begins a painstaking exercise: letting him guide me around the cramped hut, showing me the approximate layout. My hands slide along the splintered walls, counting steps from the corner to the meager hearth. He warns me of a rotten patch in the floor near the door, a tangle of broken furniture in one corner. My legs shake from the effort, but I refuse to relent.

At some point, I stub my toe on a hidden stool and nearly crash forward. Pain flares in my raw eyes, tears and blood trickling anew. Daeva catches me, arms around my waist, breath harsh in my ear. “Enough,” he pleads. “You’re hurting.”

I bite down on a whimper, frustration scorching my throat. “I have to learn,” I force out, swallowing tears. “If we’re returning to Vaerathis, I won’t be helpless.”

He sighs, lifting me as if I weigh nothing, depositing me carefully on a makeshift bedding of hay and old blankets. My heart clenches with both gratitude and longing—once again, reliant on him. “Rest,” he orders gently. “Or you’ll collapse.”

I yield, trembling. He covers me with his cloak. The taste of tears lingers, and I drift into uneasy dreams. In them, I see more flickers of memory: dark elves chanting, mirrors shattering, Daeva’s terrified eyes as the dagger sank into his flesh. Thunder booms, and my own scream merges with his.

When I snap awake, the shadows in my mind remain. My heart pounds.I have become a living mirror,I think in silent horror,reflecting Daeva’s darkest memories.Yet maybe these visions hold the key to unraveling the House’s ritual. If only I can decipher them.

An indeterminate stretch of time passes—sunset or sunrise, I cannot tell. Daeva hunts once more, leaving me alone. This time, though fear needles at my stomach, I force myself to move around the hut. Step by step, counting paces from the hearth to the door. The floor complains underfoot. My bandaged eyes burn, but I endure.

Midway through, a jolt of sharp pain spears my temples. I cry out, collapsing against the wall. The motes of silver float in the blackness. Memories strike again: flickers of runes carved into a mirror’s frame, the old ancestor chanting over Daeva’s limp body, threads of magic swirling like serpents. I see a younger elf woman crying in the background, her face contorted with guilt. Then it fades, leaving me panting, tears streaking my cheeks.

My mind reels.Another puzzle piece.Were these actual events, or illusions conjured by the shard-laden darkness behind my eyes? My heart aches for Daeva, forced into this fate centuries ago. And for that unknown elf who wept for him. Did she regret his sacrifice?

Daeva returns soon after, to find me slumped in a corner, tears of blood staining my bandages. He rushes forward, cursing his slow pace. “Calla,” he breathes, voice shaking, “are you all right?”

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