Page 7 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

I let go and stand, beckoning Calla to follow. The guard remains seated, body trembling. She nudges the torch aside and slides past him, giving him a fearful glance. He remains silent, unwilling to provoke me.

At the top of the stairs, the corridor broadens, and I feel the dryness of artificially warmed air. It indicates we’re closer to the main levels of House Vaerathis, a place that should reek of elven arrogance. My own memories—ancient as they are—suggest that the architecture above might feature tall arches, black marble, the Vaerathis crest molded into iron gates.

Calla tries to keep her footsteps quiet. The hallway ahead is lined with half-burned torches, their smoke swirling toward the vaulted ceiling. Each step I take resonates with an odd sense of déjà vu, as if I’ve walked these corridors in another life. But that’s impossible. The best explanation is that all dark elf fortresses share a certain stifling grandeur.

We reach a junction where the hallway diverges. To the left, I sense open space, perhaps an atrium or courtyard. To the right, a narrower corridor with closed doors. Calla hovers at my side, uncertain.

“This way,” she whispers, gesturing to the left. “It leads to the slave quarters, then out to the main yard. If we can reach the outer walls…”

She doesn’t finish, probably because the idea of actually escaping House Vaerathis is madness. Still, I give a curt nod and let her lead.

Her shoulders tense with every footstep, as if she expects a swarm of guards to appear. The corridor is strangely empty, though. I find that ominous—it could mean the elves sense something is off and are gathering to hunt us. My jaw tightens. Let them come.

Before we reach the archway at the corridor’s end, Calla halts abruptly, pressing herself back against the wall and signaling me to do the same. I step closer, half into an alcove.

Voices echo from around the corner. I close my eyes, focusing on each syllable.

“…the overseer said the slave girl—Calla—went down to the catacombs with Sathrin.”

“And you trust that idiot? He’s probably napping. Either that, or something worse. You know the stories.”

Two distinct voices, both male, both draped in that casual darkness typical of House Vaerathis. My fingers twitch with impatience.

Calla casts me a questioning look, and I grasp the meaning:Do we hide or fight?I don’t mind a fight. In fact, some part of me itches for violence, for the release that comes from punishing these elves. Yet a direct confrontation might draw too much attention. We still have no guarantee we can leave these halls freely.

“We can slip past,” I mouth, gesturing to the shadows along the far side of the corridor. She nods, face set with grim determination.

We move in tandem, hugging the wall. The voices continue around the corner. I catch glimpses of movement: two elves, backlit by the glow of an unseen brazier. They seem distracted, discussing the catacombs, Tovel, something about an upcoming gathering.

Then one says, “Lord Kaelith will be furious if?—”

A sudden hush.

One of them must have heard or sensed us, even with our careful steps. I tense. Calla sucks in a sharp breath. The second elf murmurs, “What was that?”

I see their silhouettes shift. One steps forward, scanning the corridor. I press my body tight against the stone, hoping the darkness masks me, but I’m acutely aware of Calla’s ragged breathing.

Slowly, the elf advances. I weigh my options: if I use my powers again, it’ll be a matter of seconds before he’s subdued. But can I do it quietly enough so the other doesn’t raise the alarm?

Just as I gather a sliver of power, a muffled shout echoes from behind us—the direction of the catacombs. Likely Sathrin has regained enough mobility to call for help. The elf in front of us jerks at the sound, turning halfway around. The second elf curses.

“This way, hurry!” the second elf orders, pivoting to respond to the cry.

In that tiny window, I whisper to Calla, “Go!” and push her forward. We dart across the corridor, slipping behind a tall drapery and into the next hall. The elves’ footsteps rush in the opposite direction, and I’m left with the frantic pounding of my own heart.

We emerge into a narrower passage that bears the unmistakable scent of unwashed bodies—humans, more than likely. Calla’s expression falters at the familiar smell. “This leads to the slave dormitory,” she says, hushed. “But if they find me here…”

Her fear is warranted. If these dark elves locate her in the dormitory, it’ll be a death sentence—or worse. But she’s right about the layout. I can sense the press of many living souls in that direction. She must be thinking of the friend she mentioned. Silas, I recall.

I brush an errant curl of white hair from my forehead, frustration simmering. Time is not on our side. If Sathrin has regained enough voice to call for reinforcements, half the household could be alerted. The thought of slaughtering them all is tempting, but that would likely result in our demise—or at least hers.

I nod curtly. “We need to move fast.”

She hesitates. “I—Silas is in the dormitory. He’d help us. I can’t just vanish without telling him.”

The flicker of earnest devotion in her eyes surprises me. Humans often cling to each other in adversity, but her determination is fierce. “You risk everything for one mortal?”

She lifts her chin. “He’s my friend. My only friend. Yes, I risk it.”

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