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10

DAEVA

I wake to the faint, dying embers of dawn. The night’s chill still lingers in the air, clinging to every rock and shard of grass. My back rests against the rough stone walls of the cave, my cloak draped haphazardly around me. Sometime in the small hours, I must have pulled away from Calla’s warmth. Now, my eyes flick open, immediately seeking her in the soft gloom.

She’s there, only a few strides away, still asleep on a makeshift bed of moss and our scattered clothes. Her hair spills over her bare shoulders, the pale locks catching what little light seeps into our shelter. My gaze drifts down to the faint scratches marring her arms and collarbones—remnants of the fight she waged against those elves last night and the frenzy that followed. A strange tightness constricts my chest, recalling the raw, savage hunger that gripped us both, culminating in… that .

I shake my head, smothering a surge of emotion I can’t afford to examine. I inhale once, slowly, centering my thoughts on the reality of our situation. It was the contract, I tell myself, a quiet lie I desperately want to believe. The bond between demon and mortal can twist desire, stoke lust in response to bloodshed and adrenaline. It’s all part of the magic, nothing more. Or at least, that’s what I claim.

My eyes trace her sleeping form, and I clamp down on the urge to brush a lock of hair from her cheek. The memory of how she felt beneath me—fiery, alive—still crackles in my veins. I try to quell it with logic: This is just the bond. A temporary conflagration. Deep down, a smaller, more vulnerable voice protests that it was more than magic, that I felt something real. But I refuse to entertain that notion. I can’t allow it.

Pushing myself upright, I slip out of the cave, ignoring the ache in my muscles. Outside, the world sprawls in a quiet hush. We’ve chosen a remote area—a rocky ravine that slopes into a forest of twisted pines. The horizon glows faintly, promising a sunlit day. My mind remains clouded. Focus, I tell myself. We have to move, to keep wandering, to find answers for her stolen soul. The threat of my old enemy gnaws at me more each day, and if I linger too long, I risk drawing danger straight to Calla’s doorstep.

But you already bound her to you , a vicious internal voice reminds me. How much more danger could she be in?

I push that thought aside, scanning the area. No sign of stray elves or other pursuers. We must’ve traveled far enough from that settlement to escape immediate notice, at least for now. Once I’m certain the coast is clear, I return to the cave.

She’s awake, sitting up with the cloak gathered around her shoulders. Her gaze flicks to me, and for an instant, our eyes lock. Heat crawls up my spine, unbidden memories of last night rushing in. I quickly break eye contact, clearing my throat.

“How do you feel?” I ask, keeping my voice curt.

She blinks, as though testing her limbs. “Sore. From everything.” A pause. “And… about last night?—”

I cut her off, yanking my tunic over my head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just part of our bond.” My tone is harsh, though inside I’m wincing at the abruptness. “You know how demon magic can amplify desires, especially after combat. It’s normal.”

A flicker of disappointment shadows her features. “Normal,” she echoes, voice subdued. “Because of the contract.”

I pretend to rummage in my pack, ignoring the twinge of guilt at her hurt expression. “Yes,” I say flatly. “It’s the nature of the demonic link. We feed off strong emotions—fear, anger, lust. It’s not… personal.” The word feels like a blade in my mouth.

She exhales, looking away, shoulders tightening beneath the cloak. I see how her lips press together, how her eyes flick with unspoken questions. I can’t do this. If I let her see how deeply I’m conflicted, how each second with her stirs something I thought long dead, it’ll only complicate matters further. It’s safer for both of us if she believes it’s just the contract.

Clearing my throat, I change the subject. “Your power,” I say. “We need to talk about that.”

Her brow furrows. “My… power?”

I nod, stepping forward, forcing my voice into a teacher’s calm. “You tapped into demonic magic last night, drawing life from those elves. It was raw, uncontrolled. You nearly gave in to it completely.”

She stiffens, recalling how she hunted them with terrifying ease. “I was outnumbered,” she murmurs defensively. “They would’ve killed me.”

“I’m not chastising you for defending yourself,” I say, gentler now. “But you need to understand, if you keep losing control like that, you risk corruption.” My gaze slides over her bruised arms. “Demonic influence can consume you from within if you don’t learn to master it.”

Her lips part in alarm, though her chin tilts in stubborn defiance. “So teach me,” she challenges. “Instead of scolding me, show me how not to become a monster.”

I arch a brow, surprised by her directness. She’s bold , I admit, a spark of reluctant admiration stirring. “Very well,” I reply, voice steady. “We’ll begin today.”

She nods, though uncertainty lingers in her eyes. Quietly, we finish dressing and gather our belongings. The air between us brims with tension—remnants of both desire and unspoken pain. But we say nothing more about the night’s intimacy. We step out of the cave, leaving that charged memory to fade among the shadows.

For the next few days, we roam farther into the wilderness—harsh landscapes dotted with jagged hills and pockets of twisted woodland. We skirt around any sign of civilization, unwilling to tempt more trouble. Each evening, we find a place to camp, and each day, I push Calla to hone the power seething under her skin.

“You can’t rely on surprise alone,” I warn her on the second day as we stand in a desolate clearing. Above us, the sky churns with gray clouds. A bitter wind snatches at our cloaks. “You took those elves unprepared before. Next time, your enemies might be ready.”

She grits her teeth, recalling my comment about her being weak . “I’ll do better,” she mutters.

“Show me,” I say, and direct her to focus on conjuring a thread of dark magic in her palm.

She closes her eyes, inhaling slowly. I sense the bond stir between us as she taps into the demonic well. A faint swirl of shadow flickers around her hand. It’s there, ephemeral but real. My own aura bristles in recognition.

“Good,” I whisper. “Steady now. Don’t let it engulf you. Picture the power as a tool you wield, not a hunger that rules you.”

She nods, sweat beading her brow. The swirl of black intensifies, dancing along her forearm. I step closer, bracing a hand on her arm. Her breath hitches—some mixture of fear, desire, and concentration. The bond thrums. Even a casual touch sets me on edge, memory of her body pressed against mine still so fresh. But I force calm.

“Now, release it,” I instruct, stepping back. “Cast it away from you, harmlessly.”

Her eyes snap open, and she lifts her hand, letting the swirling energy unravel like a whip of shadow. It crackles, striking a nearby boulder with a dull crack . A hairline fracture appears in the stone. Impressive for a novice. But I see how her lips curl in a momentary rush of pride, how the power surges in her chest.

She staggers a bit, fighting the wave of euphoria. “Gods,” she breathes, hand trembling. “It feels so… addictive.”

I nod grimly. “That’s how it draws you in. You must remain clear-headed. If you indulge too much, you risk losing yourself.”

Her expression tightens. “Then keep pushing me,” she says, determination flaring. “I won’t be helpless again.”

I sense her referring to more than just the elves. Perhaps she recalls years of enslavement to the dark elves in House Vaerathis, the helplessness she endured. I swallow, nodding. “We continue, then.”

So begins a cycle. We train from dawn until midday or beyond, forging through exhaustion. When she’s not practicing magic, I teach her basic combat: how to grip a blade properly, how to dodge, how to read an opponent’s stance. Whenever she grows complacent, I lash out with a sudden feint or challenge. She falters, but she’s learning to adapt—her eyes flick with a growing confidence, even as I remain harsh in my critiques.

“Don’t rush in blindly,” I snap on the fourth day, parrying her attempt to strike me with a wooden staff we scavenged. We’re perched on a wide plateau, a biting wind pushing at our backs. “You assume you can absorb every blow with magic, but your enemies might be faster or stronger.”

She bristles, frustration evident. “I’m trying,” she retorts, swinging again, only for me to knock her staff aside with a single deft movement. She nearly stumbles, muttering a curse. “I’d do better if you didn’t keep changing tactics.”

I slam her staff again, sending it flying from her grip. “Your foes won’t stick to a neat pattern,” I retort. “They’ll do everything they can to kill you. Accept that.”

Her eyes flash with anger, a swirl of dark power flickering around her knuckles. She lifts a hand as though to hurl a bolt of energy at me. I raise an eyebrow. “I said no magic in this exercise.” My tone is icy.

She hesitates, the shadows dissipating as she clenches her fists. “Fine. But once you’re done mocking me, I’ll show you that I can fight without relying on your demon tricks.”

A faint smirk tugs at my lips, though a part of me admires her spirit. “Try again, then.”

She lunges, bare hands this time, attempting to sweep my legs. I dodge easily, hooking my arm around hers and pulling her close until her back slams against my chest. For a moment, we freeze—her breathing ragged, my heart pounding in my ears. The tension flares again, an undercurrent of the physical closeness. My pulse spikes, recalling how we fit together in the throes of passion. Her scent envelops me, fanning embers I’ve tried to smother.

But I force myself to remain stern, releasing her abruptly. She stumbles forward, scowling. “This is impossible,” she mutters, rubbing her bruised elbow.

“You said you wanted me to push you,” I remind, voice sharper than intended. “So don’t complain.”

She glares, wiping sweat from her brow. “I’m not complaining. I’m—just—” She bites her lip, frustration evident. “I hate feeling useless.”

I exhale, some of my harshness draining away. “You’re not useless. You’re learning.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, a small spark of hope there. But I can’t let warmth linger, for fear it’ll open the floodgate of everything I’m hiding. “That’s enough for now,” I say curtly. “We’ll find a place to rest, then resume tomorrow.”

She nods, swallowing whatever reply hovered on her tongue. We gather our things, tension smoldering between us. Another day ends, her muscles aching, my mind churning with too many thoughts left unspoken.

By the fifth day, we establish a rough rhythm: travel for half the morning, searching for a new area to practice or a vantage point to ensure we’re alone, then train until she’s at her limit. The nights pass in a swirl of silent standoffs—sleeping near each other, but not touching, not discussing what we shared. I see the disappointment cloud her gaze, feel it in the bond when she tentatively draws close, only for me to deflect with a reminder: “It’s just the contract.”

I can’t bear to elaborate. Each time I try, my chest squeezes with the weight of half-formed confessions. It’s more than the bond. I crave you. I want your light. But I refuse to burden her with such vulnerability. She’s bound to me already—it would be cruel to entangle her in emotional shackles too.

Yet the unspoken tension simmers. I catch her watching me with guarded longing when we set up camp at twilight. I sense the friction in her smile when she musters a polite question, only for me to brush it aside. We’re caught in a cycle of distance, broken only by training. The fight is our language, a safer exchange than words.

On the sixth day, I decide to test her further. We find a secluded glade surrounded by towering pines. Pale sunshine filters through the canopy, illuminating the mossy ground. Birds call overhead, oblivious to our strife. I set my pack aside and roll my shoulders.

“All right,” I say, voice echoing among the trunks. “We’ll spar again. But this time, if you manage to land a solid blow on me, I’ll grant you a wish. Any single request, within reason.”

Her eyes light with cautious excitement. “A wish?”

“Yes,” I confirm. A subtle challenge thrums in my tone. “If you beat me, I’ll honor your request, no matter what it is.” Though I pray it’s not something that unravels my secrets entirely.

She nods, swallowing. I see her determination spark. “I’m ready.”

We face each other. She squares her stance, knees bent slightly, while I loosen my shoulders, scanning her posture for openings. Then, with a flicker of silent agreement, we leap into action.

She lunges first, swinging a short blade I gave her earlier—a dull practice knife, but the weight is real enough. I parry with my forearm, pivoting aside. She tries to twist around my defense, her movements quicker than before, honed by days of drills. Yet I remain faster. I block each strike with fluid efficiency, guiding her momentum away from my core.

“Focus,” I taunt, stepping back when she overextends. “Don’t rush.”

She grits her teeth, eyes blazing. Her power crackles along her arms—she yearns to use the shadow magic, but she knows the fight’s rules. Instead, she channels adrenaline into speed. She crouches low, feints left, then slashes right, nearly catching me by surprise. I jerk away, a ripple of satisfaction at her improvement. But not enough.

Seizing an opening, I spin behind her, hooking my arm around her torso. She gasps, blade pinned uselessly at her side. For an instant, her back presses to my chest, and the bond hums with a precarious charge. My pulse stutters, recalling the shape of her body so intimately entwined with mine just nights ago. She stiffens, fury and desire warring on her face.

“Let me go,” she snarls.

I comply, pushing her off. She staggers, regains balance, and whirls, lunging again. Our knives clash in a flurry of quick thrusts. She tries a bold upward slash, but I block and respond with a light rap to her knuckles. Her grip falters momentarily, but she recovers, glaring at me.

“You keep holding back,” she accuses, voice trembling with frustration.

“You haven’t given me reason to do otherwise,” I shoot back. “If I fought in earnest, you’d be pinned in seconds.”

Her cheeks flare. “Then fight me for real!”

I narrow my eyes. “Be careful what you wish for.” Nonetheless, I shift my stance, deciding to apply more pressure. I come at her from the side, forcing her to pivot quickly. She parries twice but leaves her flank open. I slip inside her guard, elbow brushing her ribs. She yelps, staggers. I catch her wrist, twisting just enough to disarm her without snapping bone.

She hisses in pain, dropping the knife. I release her, stepping away. “Yield,” I command, breath a tad heavier than I’d like to admit.

She bends, snatching her blade again, ignoring my order. Frustration contorts her features, and a swirl of black aura gathers around her fingertips, as if her demonic side threatens to burst free. But she halts, remembering the rules. She can’t use magic in this spar.

“Damn it,” she curses, flinging the practice blade aside. She presses the heel of her hand to her forehead, pacing in a tight circle on the moss. “I can’t land a hit, no matter how hard I try. It’s hopeless.”

My voice softens. “It’s not hopeless. You’re improving daily. But I’ve had centuries of combat experience?—”

“Centuries,” she echoes, bitterness creeping in. “How can I ever catch up to that?”

I watch her, noting the slump of her shoulders, the shimmering tears in her eyes she refuses to let fall. A pang of regret twists in my chest. My harshness is driving her, but also hurting her. I can’t coddle her if she wants true strength, though.

“You may never equal my skill,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “But you can become strong in your own right. Strong enough to defend yourself, to protect others if needed.”

She inhales shakily, meeting my gaze. “That’s all I want,” she whispers. “To not feel helpless, to never be at someone’s mercy again.”

Something tightens in my throat. I understand that feeling too well. I close the distance, fighting the familiar rush of heat from even this simple touch. “Keep training,” I say, voice turning gentler. “You’ll fail a thousand times, but you only need to succeed when it counts.”

Her eyes reflect a flicker of hope. The tension between us simmers, that unspoken awareness of how close we stand. I sense her heartbeat pounding through the bond, and my own pulses in response. My mind flashes to the memory of her lips parted in passion, her body arching under mine. A swirl of guilt at how I dismissed it as mere contract compulsion.

She clears her throat, stepping back slightly. “I want that wish, Daeva,” she murmurs, defiance coloring her tone. “I swear, I’ll fight you again. One day, I’ll win.”

A faint smile ghosts across my face, despite my efforts to remain stoic. “I’ll look forward to it.”

That night, we make camp near a shallow stream, the chirping of crickets underscoring the quiet between us. She busies herself collecting water, her face thoughtful. I sense her emotions roiling—determination, lingering disappointment, a spark of curiosity about the wish. But she doesn’t speak of it. I, too, remain silent on deeper matters. We share a meal of dried rations, the tension thick as the star-flecked sky arches over us.

The days stretch into a rhythm of training and traveling. Sometimes, she nearly manages a lucky strike—earning my wary respect—only for me to twist away at the last second. My mind roils with conflicting feelings: pride at her progress, concern at her reckless desire to prove herself, and an aching need to keep her close while feigning detachment.

I watch her from the corner of my eye as she practices conjuring small wisps of shadow, then forcing them to dissolve before they latch onto her mind. She’s determined, brow knitted in fierce concentration. My chest tightens with grudging admiration. You are not weak, Calla—nor worthless, I admit silently. But I can’t speak it aloud, for fear you’ll see how much I need you.

Each night, we part ways at the edges of the fire’s light—she sleeps on one side, I on the other, hearts pounding with unresolved tension. Occasionally, I sense her gaze on me across the embers, and my entire being thrums with the urge to close the distance, to seize her mouth in a punishing kiss. But I smother it, reminding myself of the contract, of my hidden enemy, of the looming danger I still refuse to name. She can’t be entangled more than she already is.

And so we endure the hush, broken only by the crackle of flames, the rustle of wind across the rocky plains, and the unspoken promise that she’ll challenge me again—and someday, she might just land that decisive blow.

On the last evening of our week-long trek, I stand at a high bluff, overlooking a valley bristling with pine trees. Calla is behind me, packing up remnants of our meager dinner. A faint copper glow tints the horizon, dusk threatening to descend fully. My mind churns with half-formed plans. We should move east soon, skirting the foothills in search of any rumored arcane ruins. Perhaps there I can find a key to unraveling our contract. Or maybe I’m chasing rumors, frightened of the day my old adversary inevitably finds me.

I sense Calla’s approach. She stands beside me, arms folded, eyes scanning the same valley. “Tomorrow we move on?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply. “We’ll try to cross the ridge before midday.”

She nods, breath fogging in the cool air. “Thank you,” she says quietly after a moment.

My brow furrows. “For what?”

She shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “For teaching me. For… tolerating me. Even if you’re harsh.” A wry twist of her lips. “I know I’m not the best student.”

I sigh, turning to face her. Moonlight grazes her hair, illuminating the curve of her cheek. My chest aches with too many unsaid words. “You’re better than you think,” I manage. “And— I’m not good at this. Teaching, I mean. Patience isn’t my strong suit.”

She lets out a soft laugh, but it fades swiftly. Silence wraps around us. I wrestle with the urge to hold her, to bridge the gap in more ways than one. But I cling to my facade, reminding myself it’s safer to keep her at bay.

Eventually, she exhales, giving me a faint smile. “I’ll beat you one day, you know.”

The corner of my mouth curves. “Is that so?”

She lifts her chin, defiance sparking in her eyes. “Yes. And when I do, I have a wish you’ll grant.”

A ripple of tension goes through me. What will she wish for? Her freedom from the contract? My secrets? Something else? I force a scoff. “You’re welcome to try.” My voice sounds more confident than I feel.

She nods, satisfied, as if she’s made a silent promise to herself. Then, with the matter closed, she brushes past me, heading back to the campsite. Our shoulders nearly touch, and I catch a thread of that old, maddening pull in the bond. She doesn’t stop, but the look in her eyes as she passes—lingering vulnerability—spears me through.

I remain on the bluff, staring into the darkening valley long after her footsteps fade. The wind tugs at my cloak, raking through my hair. My heart hammers with a confusing mix of pride, longing, and dread. Each day I watch her grow stronger, more capable. Each day I grapple with the knowledge that I want her , not just for the contract’s sake, but for the spark of life she brings.

Yet I can’t afford to let her in. I can’t let her see the demons of my past. If she knew about the ancient enmity that still hunts me… No, I think, eyes drifting shut. That secret is mine to bear. She might be bound to me, but she’s better off not knowing how deep the darkness truly runs.

At length, I return to the camp. She’s already curled on her bedroll, eyes closed, though I sense she’s not asleep. I settle across from her, near the fading fire. A hush falls, broken only by the crackle of dying embers. My gaze finds her face half-lit by the glow, and I swallow thickly, recalling the warmth of her body pressed to mine on that night of blood and frenzy.

It’s the bond , I repeat in my mind, a mantra that’s losing its conviction. Just the bond. Because admitting otherwise would mean letting my heart step into a place I vowed never to go again.

I close my eyes and let exhaustion claim me, half-aware of her presence thrumming through the tether. Someday, you might land that blow, Calla , I muse, a trace of reluctant fondness stirring. But will it be me you defeat, or your own fears?

The darkness gives no answers. And so we drift into uneasy dreams, bound by a contract neither of us can fully escape, locked in a dance of blood, magic, and unresolved longing—both yearning for a victory that might free us from the chains we refuse to name.