Page 1 of The Demon's Tongue

1

GENEVA

The musty scent of old parchment fills my nostrils as I frantically flip through yet another tome. My fingers tremble, leaving smudges on the yellowed pages. The flickering candlelight casts eerie shadows across the library's shelves, a constant reminder of the time slipping away.

"Come on, come on," I mutter, slamming the book shut and reaching for another. "There has to be something here."

My eyes ache from hours of reading, but I can't stop. Not now. Not when my future hangs in the balance.

A soft cough breaks my concentration. I look up to see Mira, one of the younger girls, peering at me from behind a bookshelf.

"Geneva?" she whispers, her eyes wide with concern. "You should be in bed. Miss Pickett will be furious if she catches you."

I shake my head, my long dark hair falling across my face. "I can't sleep, Mira. Not when..." My voice trails off, unable to voice the horror that awaits me.

Mira steps closer, her bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. "Is it true? Are they really going to..." She can't finish the sentence either.

"Sell me to a dark elf?" I spit out the words, tasting bile. "Yeah, it's true. Happy birthday to me, right?"

Mira's eyes fill with tears. "But why? You're not like the others. You're smart, and strong, and?—"

"And that's exactly why," I cut her off, my voice harsh with bitterness. "Miss Pickett thinks I'll fetch a higher price. Says the dark elves like a challenge."

I turn back to the books, my hands shaking as I open another. The words blur before my eyes, a jumble of useless information. Nothing about escaping. Nothing about breaking magical contracts. Nothing that can save me.

"There has to be a way," I growl, more to myself than to Mira. "I won't let them take me. I won't become some dark elf's plaything."

Mira, in her fright, puts away her book and scampers off. That leaves me alone in this library, fighting for answers despite the fatigue that gnaws at my limbs.

I slump back in my chair, the weight of my situation crushing down on me. The candle flickers, casting dancing shadows across the dusty tomes surrounding me. My eyes drift to a small, ornate mirror propped against a stack of books. The face staring back at me is unfamiliar—hollow-cheeked, dark circles under tired green eyes.

"Is this really all I am?" I whisper to my reflection. "Just another orphan, destined to be sold off like an animal?"

My mind wanders back to the countless times I've imagined my parents. Were they kind? Did they love me? Or was I just a burden they couldn't bear?

"Doesn't matter now, does it?" I mutter, tracing the small scar above my left eyebrow. A memento from my first attempt to escape this place.

I can still hear Miss Pickett's shrill voice echoing in my ears. "You ungrateful little wretch! We took you in when no one else would!"

Took me in. As if I should be grateful for a life of servitude and the promise of a fate worse than death.

I stand up, my legs protesting after hours of sitting. Pacing the length of the library, I let my fingers trail along the spines of the books. So much knowledge, so many stories of adventure and freedom. And here I am, trapped.

"There has to be more than this," I say to the empty room. "I refuse to believe that my entire existence is meant to be... this."

I pause at the window, looking out at the starry sky. Somewhere out there is a world I've only dreamed of. A world where I'm not defined by the circumstances of my birth or the whims of those who see me as property.

"I'll find it," I promise myself, my reflection in the glass looking more determined than I feel. "I don't care what it takes. I'll find a way out of here, away from the dark elves, away from this life."

Inspired, I return to my books. There's an answer in one of these. I can feel it. The thrumming of my heart only grows louder as my fingers dance across the pages, skimming words that hardly register.

What if this is all a waste of time?

Swallowing hard, I gather all of the books in my hand and start returning them to their rightful places on the shelves.

As I slide the last book into place, my fingers brush against something peculiar. Hidden behind the row of tomes, a slim volume catches my eye. Its spine bears no title, just a strange symbol that seems to writhe and twist as I look at it.

"What is this?" I mutter, carefully extracting the book. My curiosity gets the best of me. Adrenaline starts coursing through my veins.

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