Page 4 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

Forcing myself to continue, I approach a door at the end of the corridor. It’s slightly ajar. Yellowish mold creeps along the wooden panels, and the hinges are rusted. I push it open with my foot, lifting the bucket in case something lunges out.

Inside is a small chamber stacked with crates and sacks—storeroom indeed. The stench of rot hits me. From the look of it, none of these supplies have been touched in years, if not decades. Cobwebs dangle from the ceiling like ghostly drapes.

I kneel to scrub patches of black-green mold creeping along the stone floor. My every breath is shallow. Each scrape of the rag reveals more questionable stains, cracked floor tiles, and signs of water damage. If Tovel expects me to make this place “acceptable,” she’s delusional. But I have no choice.

As I work, my mind drifts to Silas, to the small flicker of hope he always carries. He’s the one who insists humans aren’t doomed, that somewhere in Protheka there might be a safe haven. Some city or stronghold that looks on our kind with pityinstead of disdain. I’ve never believed such a place could exist, but I cling to the thought all the same.

A sudden chill scuttles up my spine. It’s not the usual coldness of this underground space; it feels sharper, almost electric. I drop the rag and stand.

It’s then I notice a faint glow pulsing beneath a crate in the far corner, like a thread of pale light shining through a crack. My heart thuds. Does the floor have a gap? Or is there some hidden compartment?

Curiosity and dread war within me, but before I can think better of it, I set the bucket aside and tiptoe closer. The crate is half rotted, easy enough to push aside. As I do, I reveal a hidden trapdoor set into the floor. A seam in the stone frames a recessed handle.

That glow flickers from the crack where the trapdoor doesn’t quite meet the threshold. A prickle of apprehension warns me to ignore it. Yet I kneel, brushing away dirt and mold to get a better look. My fingertips run over runes etched around the trapdoor’s edge. They’re unlike the ones in the archway—these look older, the lines more jagged, carved with a shaky hand.

I exhale a tremulous breath. In the stories told among slaves, I’ve heard mention of hidden rituals and cursed relics.Is that what’s down there?Something best left alone?

But if I don’t report this, will I be punished for “concealing” valuable property of House Vaerathis? Tovel might decide I’m lying or incompetent. My gut twists, and I glance at the open doorway, half expecting Sathrin or Tovel themselves to appear and see me meddling.

Silence.

Steeling my nerves, I slide my fingers under the handle, tugging at the trapdoor. It’s heavier than I expect, but I manage to lift it enough to peer into the darkness below. That strangeglow increases, like white phosphorescence. It paints dancing shadows on my face.

A short ladder descends into a cramped space. The air that wafts up is shockingly cold, making me shiver from head to toe. My instincts screamdanger, but another voice inside me whispers that knowledge is power, and power is my best shot at survival.

I set a foot on the ladder and climb down. My entire body trembles. I keep imagining rats or monstrous shapes waiting below, but I can’t turn back. My curiosity overpowers my fear.

At the bottom, my boots hit stone. The glow emanates from a circular pattern etched on the wall—a swirl of runes forming a ring around a polished black surface. It’s…a mirror? I step closer, hardly believing what I see. The frame is carved directly into the stone, but the mirror’s surface looks liquid, like oil shimmering under moonlight.

My reflection there is warped, ghostly. I raise a hand, and the reflection lags, as though it’s not just a mirror but something deeper. I hear a faint humming, a pulse that resonates in my chest. My heart pounds, matching that rhythm.

For an instant, I think I catch a flicker of movement behind my reflection—like a shape drifting in dark water. That’s impossible. I want to back away, to scramble up the ladder and seal this place forever.

But then I recall everything that’s been taken from me: my freedom, my dignity, Silas’s safety. If there’s even a shred of power here, something to tip the scales, shouldn’t I at least look?

Swallowing hard, I whisper, “What are you?”

The mirror ripples, and a faint wind stirs the hair around my face, though there’s no earthly source for it. That flicker behind the glass grows more defined—something tall, angular, with eyes like pale flames.

My stomach knots.Is that a figure? A demon? A spirit?

A compulsion seizes me, urging me to touch the surface. I can’t explain it; it’s as though the mirror is calling to me, its power reaching out in silent invitation.

Before I lose my nerve, I press my palm to the glass. It’s cold as ice, jolting me with a sensation akin to grabbing a live wire. A pain lances up my arm. The runes carved in the frame flare white. My vision wavers.

I gasp, trying to pull away, but some invisible force holds my hand in place. My reflection distorts, and within it, I see eyes—glowing silver-blue, inhuman, staring at me from behind the glass.

A soft voice echoes in my head, not in any language I know. It resonates with an undercurrent of hunger, despair, and longing. The trapped figure stirs behind the reflection, forcing me to question whether I’m hallucinating from the catacombs’ rumored toxins. But no—this feels far too real.

A wave of dizziness hits me, and I sink to one knee. The mirror’s surface ripples again, and I feel something push against my palm from the other side, like a hand pressing into mine. Then, with a muted roar—like distant thunder—the glass cracks from the inside.

I yank my hand free at last, stumbling back against the damp wall. My breathing is ragged, my skin clammy. The black mirror pulses, spiderweb fractures glowing with eldritch light. Then the reflection darkens, and I’m left staring into a void.

A single heartbeat passes in silence. Two. Three.

Then a shape emerges from the mirror. Tall, lean, half-wreathed in shadows that swirl around him like living smoke. My entire body seizes with terror.This is impossible.Yet here he stands, stepping onto the stone floor with unnatural grace.

His pale skin is almost luminescent in the gloom, his hair a soft white that falls just past his ears. And his eyes…flickering silver-blue, an impossible color. He looks too beautiful to be amonster, yet something about his presence screams danger. My mind reels.

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