Page 6 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

Her mention of a guard doesn’t concern me as much as it should. I’ve dealt with far worse than a single elf or two. Yet I keep my expression neutral. “Then we’ll deal with the guard if we must,” I say. I walk forward, and she yields space, pressing her back against the stone wall to let me pass.

She smells of stale sweat and fear, but beneath that I detect something subtle—resilience. A will that sets her apart from the quivering, helpless mortal I might have expected to find in a place like this. It intrigues me.

“Come,” I say, voice low. “We don’t have much time.”

The corridor beyond is narrow, lit by only a single sconce flickering with weak, orange light. The shadows dance in the corners, and the moist stone underfoot makes each step slightly perilous. I tread without sound, my senses on high alert. This entire place brims with an undercurrent of energy that reminds me of the rituals performed here long ago, rituals that shaped me into what I am now. The walls practically hum with residual power, yet it’s stale, half-awake, not the living chaos I remember.

I glance behind me and see the girl—Calla, if I recall her name from the whispers in the mirror’s half-life. She follows, knuckles tight around the handle of her cleaning bucket. Why does she still carry that worthless thing? Perhaps it’s the only semblance of security she has. The idea almost makes me laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

We edge down the passage. I keep to the right, scanning each recess. From behind a boarded-up doorway, I sense movement or perhaps just the shift of stale air. Calla’s breath catches, and she lifts the bucket like a shield. I hold up one hand in a silent gesture to wait. The boards are covered in rot, but nothing emerges. After a few heartbeats, we continue.

My mind churns with questions: how long have I languished in that mirror, locked away from the mortal realm? Centuries, certainly. But it felt like an endless cycle, time coiling in on itself until I forgot my own voice. And now, here I am, awoken by this slip of a girl who has no idea what she’s unleashed.

I also wonder why I don’t sense his presence—the one whose name I dare not speak just yet. The bond is still there, distant and loathsome, but it feels muted compared to what I remember. Perhaps time has drained his power. Or perhaps he’s only begun to stir.

Ahead, a faint glow suggests a larger intersection or chamber. Calla stops me with a light tug on my sleeve. I stiffen, not accustomed to being touched uninvited, but I don’t snap at her. Instead, I tilt my head, a silent question.

She leans in close, voice barely above a whisper. “There might be a guard posted. He left me here earlier. Sathrin—he’s cruel, even for a dark elf.”

The mention of cruelty from her perspective interests me. Mortals often speak of the elves’ malice, but I recall a time when their cruelty was tempered by arrogance—a sense that they were above the rest of the world. Now, hearing her, it sounds more personal, more brutal than the distant memories I harbor.

“I’ll handle him,” I say softly, then pause. “Unless you’d rather not see…what I might do.”

Her eyes go wide, flecks of gold catching the faint light. She swallows, as though imagining the horror that might come next. “No. I just—I don’t want him sounding an alarm. There are more elves up there.”

“I understand.” And I do. Confrontation is inevitable, but stealth might preserve her life a little longer. “Stay behind me.”

We round the corner, and sure enough, there’s a flight of stone steps leading up to a landing. The guard—Sathrin, presumably—stands partway up, leaning against the wall with atorch in one hand and a bored sneer on his face. He shifts his weight, scanning the darkness below. Even from this distance, I see the contempt etched in his features, as if he believes the occupant of these catacombs isn’t worth caution.

In a moment, I weigh my options: I can rush him, silence him before he yells. Or I can employ subtler methods. My power is still stirring, not at full strength, but enough.

I slip into the shadows, guiding Calla with a gentle push to keep her behind me. Each footstep is perfectly silent, a trick I learned in a life I can barely recall. The torchlight wavers, and Sathrin’s eyes drift across the corridor. I sense his mild unease—perhaps the catacombs are rumored to be haunted.

He doesn’t see me until I’m nearly upon him. His gaze snaps to mine, and in that instant, I unleash a whisper of my darkness.

My hand darts out and clamps around his wrist. He inhales sharply, shock widening his eyes. I can feel the faint thrum of his lifeblood under his skin, the rush of adrenaline as he realizes a predator has found him. Before he can shout, I channel the dark energy coiled in my veins—just enough to sap his strength.

Sathrin sputters, dropping the torch. It lands on the stone with a dull clatter, rolling toward Calla’s feet. She flinches away, fear in her expression, but no scream escapes her throat. Good.

The guard tries to jerk free, but I tighten my grip. He’s bigger than a typical elf guard I remember, but that strength means little against demonic power. My lips curve into a cold smile. “Scream and you die.”

He glares, lips trembling. “W-what the?—”

I press a wave of paralyzing cold into his arm, and he stiffens from head to toe. He can’t even open his mouth now. Gently, I guide him to sit on the step so he won’t collapse and make a racket. His eyes plead, but I maintain the hold.

Calla steps closer, bucket clutched to her chest. “Is he…dead?” she whispers.

“No. But he’s helpless.” I release a fraction of my hold, and he sucks in a ragged breath, able to speak again.

His voice shakes. “Y-you—What are you?”

“Does it matter?” I reply, letting venom thread my words. My gaze flicks to Calla, and I notice the way her features twist with conflict. She’s afraid, but she also hates this guard. She hates everything he represents.

She meets my stare, and I see the question in her eyes.Are you going to kill him?The curious side of me wants to see her reaction. If I do kill him, would she be horrified or relieved?

But caution wins out. A dead guard might raise more suspicion than one who’s been subdued. Perhaps it’s better to leave him here, incapacitated. I shift my hand to his throat, ignoring his frantic attempts to move. “We’re going to walk up those stairs,” I tell him quietly. “And you’re not going to make a sound.”

He winces as the cold intensifies. “I—yes, yes, anything.”

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