Page 1 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

1

CALLA

Iwake before first light, curled on a straw pallet in the narrow dormitory that houses the Vaerathis slaves. My back aches from yesterday’s labor, and my forearms are stiff with bruises that have not yet had time to fade. Still, I push myself upright without a sound. If anyone catches me lazing in bed when the overseer comes by, the punishment will be swift. And loud.

I try not to make noise as I rise, for the other slaves are still sleeping, each locked in their own silent world of fear and exhaustion. The dormitory’s stale air, laced with the acrid scent of unwashed bodies and old sweat, invades my lungs. I yearn for even a moment of fresh, untainted air. Sometimes I dream of open fields or a wide blue sky I can call my own, but then I remember: I don’t really have a “own” anything. Not in Protheka, and certainly not in House Vaerathis.

I step carefully around Silas, my only friend in this damned place. He’s younger than I am—eighteen, with a lean body barely strong enough for the grueling demands the dark elves place upon us. Yet his spirit refuses to bow, and that spirit has kept me afloat more times than I can count. He stirs when I pass, his eyelids fluttering. In the gloom, I see his eyes crack open, justenough to register my shape. “Calla,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, “you’re already up?”

“Shh,” I whisper back. “Go back to sleep, if you can. I’ll see if I can bring you water.”

He gives a mute nod, turning onto his side. I suspect he won’t drift off again—Silas is never truly at peace here—but there’s no harm in trying.

Outside the dormitory, a single torch hisses in its bracket, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The corridor is cramped, the ceiling just high enough that a tall dark elf would have to stoop. By design, they rarely wander into this part of the estate unless they’re searching for a slave or planning a punishment.

At this quiet hour, the overseer has not yet begun prowling the corridors, so I keep my footsteps light, moving silently through the space that is both my prison and my entire world. House Vaerathis is a fortress as much as it is a mansion—composed of sprawling halls, austere courtyards, and countless locked doors. The marble floors in the elves’ private quarters are polished to a perfect sheen, but here, in the slave quarters, the stones under my feet are rough, chipped with age and neglect.

A distant clang of metal on metal startles me, and I almost drop the small bucket I carry. My heart lurches. Sometimes it’s just a guard adjusting armor or an accidental noise of service doors clapping shut. Other times it’s a warning that a punishment is about to be doled out in the courtyard. The dark elves do not believe in subtlety or second chances. The swirling chaos that is my existence can shift on a single misstep.

I find the washroom at the end of the corridor. It’s more a disused closet with a single leaky faucet that drips brackish water into a stone basin. I fill the bucket, the splashes echoing in the cramped space. My breath catches the faint stench of sulfur that comes from some subterranean aquifer beneath the estate.

The memory of the rumor surfaces: beneath House Vaerathis lie catacombs older than the city itself, catacombs that reek of unnatural energies. I’ve heard dark whispers among the slaves, half-remembered legends that those tunnels hold arcane artifacts from a time when the Vaerathis line practiced rites to prolong life or conjure nightmares.

I don’t believe half the rumors that pass from slave to slave—most are born of desperation. But the fear in their eyes is real. I’ve seen it. And in this world, fear often speaks truths.

I dip a rag into the bucket and clean my face, though I’m aware this is the best I’ll feel all day. The clang of metal has subsided, replaced by a hush so thick I can hear my own heart drumming. I drag a coarse cloth across my cheeks and consider the reflection in the water’s rippling surface. A slim, tired face stares back: dark brown hair that’s seen neither comb nor kindness in days, hazel eyes that flicker with the faint gold color I used to find pretty. These days, I’m never sure who I am beyond “Calla, the slave.”

I recall a single memory from my childhood—before I was sold to House Vaerathis—my mother braiding my hair, murmuring stories about humans who once roamed the continents freely. Now, our kind is property. We have no voice in this world. Any illusions otherwise are shattered by the scars on my back.

I push the memory away, stepping back out into the corridor. Several other slaves are stirring, their expressions vacant as they emerge from the dormitory. Some share the same dead-eyed look that I fear one day might consume me. At least Silas still has that spark. And maybe, buried deep, I have one too.

My morning’s assignment is to scrub the east wing floors, the ones the highborn dark elves walk upon. A dreaded chore, but it’s better than being the personal plaything for someone like Lord Kaelith. I lower my eyes, reminding myself to display thedeference the elves demand, as I pass a pair of female dark elves in the hall. They’re swathed in black-and-crimson robes, runic patterns embroidered along the hems. I hear snatches of their conversation:

“—the catacombs cause a chill in the wards?—”

“—probably nothing. The matron will handle it?—”

At the mention of “catacombs,” my blood stills. It’s nothing I can act on, no real information to glean. But it’s enough to affirm the rumors that something stirs beneath the estate.

When I reach the east wing, I dip a stiff-bristled brush into soapy water and begin scrubbing the marble floors. My muscles scream with every motion, the repetitive drudgery wearing me down. The hall is lined with tall windows of stained glass, each depicting vainglorious scenes of dark elf history—wars, victories, ceremonies. I have no illusions that humans appear anywhere in those mosaics, unless it’s in the background as corpses or kneeling figures.

Halfway through my chore, a door at the far end of the corridor swings open. I freeze, brush clutched in my hand. The figure stepping out is Lord Kaelith Vaerathis himself, clad in a polished black cuirass and matching gauntlets. He stands tall, broad-shouldered for a dark elf, with slanted violet eyes that never fail to send a cold wave of fear through me. His hair, bone-white, is braided in a style that underscores his status.

He notices me immediately, his lips curving into a cruel approximation of a smile. “You there. Slave,” he snaps.

I scramble to my feet, dropping the brush and staring at the floor to avoid meeting his gaze. “My lord.”

He approaches, boots clicking ominously on the damp marble, until he’s near enough that I can sense his breath. “The floors are not nearly as pristine as they should be.”

I know better than to defend myself; the water bucket is half empty, the brush worn to its bristles. No matter how thoroughlyI scrub, it’ll never be enough to satisfy him. His cruelty finds fault in every corner.

He lifts the toe of his boot, flicking it at my pail so it sloshes water across my ankles. “See to it that this corridor gleams by midday or you’ll be whipped again,” he says, voice as cold as the marble beneath us.

“Yes, my lord,” I manage, forcing the words out through clenched teeth.

“Good.” He eyes me another moment, as though savoring my subservience, then strides away.

My breath stutters in my chest. I gather my brush and kneel once more, ignoring the trembling in my limbs. If I let rage surface, I’ll only hurt myself. Still, a tiny flame flickers behind my ribs. A single, dangerous thought:Someday, I want to walk away from him without fear.

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