Page 16 of The Demon's Little Girl
This has been happening more frequently over the past few weeks. At first I attributed it to bad water or spoiled food—hazards of living rough without proper resources. But the episodes are getting worse, more frequent, accompanied by a bone-deep exhaustion that makes even simple tasks feel monumental.
I might be sick. Really sick, not just the kind of tired that comes from sleeping on rocks and eating whatever I can scavenge or buy with the small amount of money I took when I fled. The thought should terrify me, but mostly I feel numb. Another problem to add to the growing list of things I can't control or fix.
The port city of Khaleris appears like a mirage as I crest the final hill before the northern cliffs. It's smaller than Bilgonith, buildings carved directly into the cliff face with narrow streetswinding between structures that look like they grew from the stone itself rather than being built on top of it. Ships dot the harbor below, their masts creating a forest of timber and rope against the gray sky.
Perfect. A place where someone like me can disappear entirely, become just another nameless face in crowds of sailors and merchants and others running from things they'd rather forget.
I make my way down the winding path toward the city proper, each step jarring through bones that feel too brittle for my young age. The exhaustion is getting worse—by the time I reach the outer edges of Khaleris, I'm struggling to keep my eyes open despite the fact that it's barely midday.
The first inn I try wants more money than I have left. The second offers me a room in exchange for work, but one look at my condition and the proprietor changes his mind. "Come back when you're not about to collapse on my floors," he says, not unkindly but firmly enough that I know arguing won't help.
I end up spending the night huddled in an alley between two shops, my cloak wrapped around me like armor against the wind that howls between buildings. Sleep comes in fits and starts, interrupted by dreams that aren't really dreams—memories of hands I don't want to remember, words spoken in voices that make my skin crawl.
The next morning brings another episode of violent nausea that leaves me shaking and weak. This time there are other symptoms too—a strange metallic taste in my mouth, sensitivity to smells that never bothered me before, a gnawing hunger that makes no sense given how little I can keep down.
Something's wrong. Really wrong, in ways that go beyond simple illness or exhaustion.
I spend two days watching the patterns of the city, learning which streets are safest and which areas to avoid. Khalerisoperates on a loose set of rules that seem to revolve around minding your own business and not causing trouble for the merchant guilds that run most of the legitimate trade. Perfect for someone who needs to stay invisible.
But the sickness is getting worse. I can barely make it through a full day without collapsing, and the nausea hits at random intervals that leave me dizzy and disoriented. Whatever's happening to my body, I need answers before it gets bad enough to make survival impossible.
The healer's shop sits tucked between a fishmonger and a place that sells rope and ship supplies, marked only by a small wooden sign carved with symbols I don't recognize. The woman who answers my knock is human, middle-aged with graying hair and hands that look like they've seen their share of difficult work.
"I need..." I start, then pause, unsure how to explain symptoms that don't make sense even to me. "I think I'm sick. Have been for weeks."
She studies me with sharp green eyes, taking in my obvious exhaustion and the way I'm swaying on my feet despite my best efforts to appear stable.
"Come in," she says simply, stepping aside to let me enter the small space that serves as both shop and examination room.
The questions she asks are thorough and professional. How long have I been feeling ill? What symptoms am I experiencing? When did they start? I answer as honestly as I can while leaving out details about why I'm traveling alone or where I came from.
"When was your last bleeding?" she asks, and something cold settles in my stomach at the way she phrases the question.
"I..." The words stick in my throat as I try to remember. Stress can disrupt cycles, I know that. Living rough, not eating properly, the trauma of everything that happened—all of that could explain why I haven't bled in... how long has it been?
Too long. Much too long.
"I need to examine you," she says gently, but her tone carries a weight that makes my hands start shaking. "Lie down here."
The examination feels like it lasts forever, her hands pressing against my stomach and sides with practiced efficiency. I stare at the ceiling and try to think about anything except what her findings might mean.
"Well," she says finally, washing her hands in a basin near the window. "You're not sick, dear."
The relief that floods through me is short-lived, replaced immediately by confusion at her serious expression.
"Then what?—"
"You're with child," she says simply, the words hitting me like a physical blow. "About two months along, I'd estimate."
The world tilts sideways. Everything goes very quiet except for the sound of blood rushing in my ears, drowning out whatever else she might be saying. I hear the words but they don't make sense, can't make sense, because that would mean?—
Only one demon has touched me. Only one.
Two months ago.
The sob that tears from my throat surprises us both. I roll onto my side, curling into myself as if I can somehow make this truth smaller, manageable, something that won't destroy what little remains of my sanity.
"I can't," I whisper into the rough fabric of the examination table. "I can't be."
