Page 2 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

I push the brush over the tiles until my nails splinter, determined to finish the task before midday.

Hours crawl by. My arms are shaking, my hair plastered to my forehead. I don’t stop even as my stomach growls from missing breakfast. I can’t risk tardiness. Lord Kaelith could return at any moment to check on me.

When I’m nearly done, another figure looms over me—not Kaelith but a short, wiry dark elf guard named Arhen. His lip curls as he scans my sweat-slick face. “You’re to report to Overseer Tovel,” he says.

I pick myself up, forcing my knees to straighten. “Did I?—”

“Don’t ask questions,” he snaps, turning on his heel to lead me away.

I stifle a sigh and follow him. My immediate dread is that Tovel will order me to do some humiliating or painful chore. Overseer Tovel is the iron fist that enforces Vaerathis rules on us humans. She’s a slight dark elf with an angular face andperpetually narrowed eyes, but her capacity for cruelty dwarfs that of many of the male soldiers.

Arhen directs me down a twisting corridor to a small antechamber. There, Tovel stands by a wide desk scattered with scrolls. Her posture is rigid, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable.

The door shuts behind me. I keep my eyes averted, shoulders tense.

“You took your time with those floors,” Tovel remarks, voice as soft as a cat’s paw.

“Lord Kaelith—he—” I hesitate, unsure if blaming him for my pace is wise.

She waves a hand, cutting off my explanation. “I don’t care about your excuses. You have a new assignment.”

My heart flutters, uncertain if this is better or worse. “Yes, Overseer.”

She paces around the desk and picks up a short baton, tapping it against her palm. It’s a gesture I’ve come to associate with incoming punishment. “We’ve had an…incident of sorts in the lower levels.”

“Lower levels?” My voice catches.

Tovel’s eyes bore into me. “The catacombs,” she says, letting the word hang in the air with ominous weight. I stiffen. Very few slaves are sent there, and those who return often come back pale, jittery—refusing to speak of what they saw.

“You will clean them,” she continues. “The older storerooms on the first sub-level. House Vaerathis is hosting certain…important figures next week, and the catacombs must be in acceptable condition.” Her lips twist as though even she finds the notion absurd.

I want to scream that this is a suicide mission, that she might as well fling me to the Gilak demons. Instead, I swallow. “Yes, Overseer,” I say, forcing my voice not to shake.

She smiles, a slow, humorless curve of her thin lips. “Good. You’ll start at dawn tomorrow. A guard will escort you. Dismissed.”

I wait for a moment, uncertain if I’m meant to bow or speak further. Tovel’s baton taps her palm in a measured rhythm, and I realize she’s finished with me. Turning stiffly, I exit the chamber, breathing with shallow caution until I’m out of earshot.

The catacombs. The chill that creeps up my spine is impossible to ignore. Despite the swirl of rumors, no slave is foolish enough to speak openly about them for long. I know of two who ventured there months ago. They came back silent, eyes haunted, and within a week, they were sold off to a traveling dark elf merchant.

My only solace is that Tovel said storerooms on the first sub-level. Perhaps that area isn’t as cursed or dangerous as the deeper catacombs. Then again, House Vaerathis has plenty of secrets, and none of them bode well for humans.

I make my way back to the slave dormitory after finishing the floor-scrubbing. My arms feel like lead, my legs shaky from hours of kneeling. Silas is there, perched on an upturned crate along the wall, nibbling on a stale crust of bread.

“You look awful,” he says by way of greeting. Though his voice is teasing, there’s concern in his eyes.

I slump beside him. “Thanks. I feel worse than I look.”

He offers me a piece of bread. It’s dry and crumbly, but my stomach rumbles too loudly for me to refuse. “What happened?”

I chew slowly, letting the coarse lumps dissolve on my tongue. “They’re sending me…downstairs tomorrow,” I say at last.

His eyes widen. “The catacombs?”

“Yes.”

He lowers his voice, glancing around to ensure no guards are near. “Gods, Calla. I’ve heard the stories. They say the wallsmove down there, that there’s black mold that seeps into your lungs and makes you hallucinate. And something worse…”

I understand the unspoken words:Magic, perhaps something demonic or monstrous.“I don’t have a choice,” I murmur. “Tovel’s orders. I either go, or I face punishment.”

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