Page 13 of The Demon's Little Girl
"No."
"Fair enough." He leans back in the chair, making himself comfortable. "Mind if I sit here for a while anyway? Nowhere else I need to be."
The casual way he offers his presence without expecting anything in return breaks something loose in my chest. Not enough to make me speak, but enough to make breathing slightly easier.
We sit in silence as the afternoon light shifts through my small window, painting different patterns on the worn wooden floor. Avenor seems content to simply exist in the same space, a quiet guardian against whatever demons he can sense circling even if he doesn't know their names.
Eventually, the need to wash becomes overwhelming—not just the physical dirt and sweat from cleaning, but the invisible contamination that feels embedded in my skin like stains that will never come out.
"I need to bathe."
He nods immediately, already rising from the chair. "I'll cover for you with the evening duties. Tell everyone you're feeling unwell and need the night to recover."
"You don't have to?—"
"Yes, I do." His voice carries quiet conviction that brooks no argument. "Whatever happened today, you need time to process it. Take the time."
He pauses at the door, hand on the handle, and looks back at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "nothing you could tell me would change how I see you. You know that, right?"
The words hit like arrows to an already wounded heart, each one carrying kindness I no longer know how to accept. I want to believe him, want to trust that friendship could survive the knowledge of what I've become.
But Xharn's voice whispers in my mind, reminding me what happens to ruined things in a world built on honor and worth.
"Thank you." It's all I can manage without breaking completely.
He nods once and slips out, leaving me alone with the silence and the growing certainty that nothing will ever be the same again.
It makes what I'm about to do so much worse.
6
ROVAK
The morning light filters through the tall windows of my private dining chamber, casting long shadows across the polished table. I sit at the head, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the dark wood as I wait for Liora to appear with my breakfast. The chair across from me—her usual spot when she serves the morning meal—remains empty.
She's never late. In six years, not once.
My jaw tightens as I check the position of the sun again. A full fifteen minutes past her usual time, and there's no sign of her quick footsteps in the corridor outside, no soft knock announcing her arrival with the perfectly prepared meal I've come to expect.
Something's wrong.
I push back from the table with enough force to scrape the chair legs against stone, the harsh sound echoing in the empty chamber. My boots strike the floor in sharp staccato beats as I head for the door, already anticipating the explanations I'll demand from whoever's responsible for this disruption to my routine.
The kitchen should be bustling at this hour—Akira directing the preparation of the day's meals while Tom handles whatever tasks need muscle rather than skill. Instead, I find them clustered near the main prep table with Avenor, their heads bent together in hushed conversation that stops abruptly when my footsteps announce my approach.
"—what do you mean she's not there?" Akira's voice carries a sharp edge of concern that makes my stomach clench with something I refuse to acknowledge as fear.
"I checked three times," Avenor replies, his usual sardonic tone replaced by something grimmer. "Her bed hasn't been slept in, and?—"
"Where is Liora?"
My voice cuts through their whispered conference like a blade, and all three of them whip around to face me with expressions that confirm every dark suspicion already forming in my mind. Tom goes pale, his usual chattiness evaporating under the weight of whatever knowledge they're sharing. Akira's weathered face creases with worry lines that seem deeper than they were yesterday.
But it's Avenor who holds my gaze, his navy eyes filled with the kind of careful consideration he uses when delivering news that's going to hit like a physical blow.
"Rovak." He straightens to his full height, shoulders squaring in preparation for whatever conversation he knows is coming. "We should talk."
