Page 13

I sense trouble long before I see it. It’s a tingle at the base of my spine, a prickling awareness in the back of my mind that has me tightening my grip on the dagger I carry. Beside me, Daeva’s lips press thin. He feels it too—something dark stirring in the wind or creeping across the horizon. We’ve just crested a low ridge, overlooking a valley cluttered with stunted trees and dry underbrush, when the scent of dust and fear drifts our way.

I draw in a cautious breath, scanning the valley floor. The late afternoon sun glares in my eyes, but I make out shapes moving along a narrow track—an armed caravan, perhaps six or seven figures on foot, herding a group of smaller silhouettes. My heartbeat kicks. The smaller forms wear tattered clothes, some limping, some shackled. Slaves. My mouth goes dry.

A knot forms in my stomach. How many times did I trudge along a path just like that, head bowed, the whip at my back? My pulse quickens, anger simmering.

Daeva notices the flush in my cheeks, the tension in my jaw. His voice is low and edged with warning. “Calla. Don’t get involved.”

I tear my gaze from the caravan to glare at him. “They’re slaves—humans, from the looks of it. Our people.”

He doesn’t blink. “We can’t save every mortal who suffers in Protheka. We have more pressing goals.”

It’s the same response he’s given me countless times whenever we come across injustice. Each time, it chips at the fragile bond between us, stirring resentment. The frustration I’ve carried these past days—over our training, his dismissals, the tension after that night of blood and lust—clashes with the memory of my own enslavement. My jaw clenches.

“You don’t care?” I ask, voice taut.

His eyes flick away, revealing nothing. “Their plight isn’t our priority. Interference risks drawing attention.” He gestures pointedly at the valley. “We can bypass them unseen.”

My throat tightens. “I won’t leave them.” Before he can argue further, I drop low, ducking into the scrub. A faint hiss of exasperation escapes him, but I’m already crawling away from the ridge line. Let him sulk, I think furiously. My blood hums with righteous anger, so fierce it drowns out caution.

I scramble down the rocky slope, sticking to shadows. I’m vaguely aware of Daeva hovering behind me, though he keeps his distance. The caravan is slow, forced to match the stumbling gait of its captives. As I draw closer, I see the captors are indeed dark elves—eight or nine of them, all female, clad in House Vaerathis colors. My heart stutters. Vaerathis? The very same family that enslaved me?

Bile rises in my throat. My mind snaps back to the endless corridors, the whip’s crack, Lord Kaelith’s sneer. Fury blazes, fueling the dark power stirring in my veins. I grit my teeth, waiting behind an outcrop, letting them pass by so I can count their number accurately. Seven armed elves, I confirm. About four or five humans shackled together…

My stomach roils. Some of the humans appear near my age, others older, their eyes dull with exhaustion and despair. All female. The brand on one woman’s forearm is hideously familiar. A Vaerathis mark. No, I vow. Not again.

I risk a quick glance over my shoulder. Daeva lurks twenty strides behind, crouched behind a thorny bush. His face is impassive, but I sense a swirl of tension through our bond, as though he’s coiled to intervene if I do something catastrophically foolish. I probably am, I admit silently. But that doesn’t stop me.

I wait until the caravan files past my position. Then, summoning a breath, I slip from my hiding spot, creeping behind the rearmost guard. My heart pounds, adrenaline surging. Focus, Calla. Don’t lose control. If I unleash magic blindly, I might slaughter them all—something I’ve done once already, and the memory haunts me. But I can’t let them continue this slave train unchallenged.

The guard at the back is armed with a short sword. Her pointed ears are half-covered by a burgundy hood that bears the Vaerathis crest. She leads one of the enslaved women by a chain. The woman stumbles, and the guard snaps, yanking hard, nearly toppling her.

That’s all I need. Now. I surge forward, clamping a hand over the guard’s mouth and jamming my dagger against her neck. She stiffens, muffled shock escaping her throat.

“Don’t make a sound,” I whisper fiercely. “Or your life ends now.” My heart drums with savage intensity. I can feel the pulse of demonic power beneath my skin, itching to lash out. But I keep it at bay for the moment, channeling my fear and fury into a controlled threat.

The guard’s eyes widen, but she’s well-trained—she tries to jerk aside, reaching for her sword. I tighten my grip, slicing her throat shallowly in warning. Warm blood trickles over my fingers. A muted rasp of pain escapes her. The human captive looks on in stunned silence.

“Release the chain,” I hiss. She doesn’t comply fast enough, so I twist the dagger. Her breath hitches, and she fumbles to unhook the metal. The captive tears free, stumbling back with eyes wide.

My victory is short-lived. Another guard notices. A sharp bark of alarm cuts through the air. A flurry of movement follows: dark elves rushing forward, the enslaved humans recoiling in confusion. My hostage tries to elbow me. I duck and drive my dagger up, ending her with a grim slash. She crumples in a heap, blood slicking the dirt.

No turning back now. The rest of the guards converge, swords out, faces contorted with rage. Two of them stay near the front, corralling the remaining slaves behind a wagon. The other four form a half-circle around me. Outnumbered, again , I think, but my blood sings with dark adrenaline.

One guard snarls, “It’s her—the Vaerathis runaway. The mortal slave who escaped with that demon!”

My pulse leaps. They recognize me. Another guard exclaims, “We have orders to bring her back. The master wants both the demon and his summoner.”

Hatred flares. Master? They must mean the patriarch, or perhaps the entire House that hunts me. My body trembles, recalling endless punishments. “I’m no one’s property,” I snarl, letting the demonic power coil in my chest. A faint swirl of shadow crackles around my forearm. Just enough… Don’t lose control.

With a yell, they attack. Steel glints in the sunlight. I dodge a sweeping blade, sinking low into a stance Daeva drilled into me. My foot hooks around the guard’s ankle, sending her toppling. Another swings from behind. I spin, parrying with the battered dagger. The blade screeches as it meets metal, jarring my arm. I grit my teeth, pushing the second guard off-balance.

A third lunges, chanting something. Magic flares from her palm—a crackling ribbon of purple energy that sizzles across the space between us. I barely roll aside, the blast scorching the dirt. Dark elf sorcery. My eyes narrow. So be it. I unleash a pulse of my own magic, letting it surge from my fingertips. It collides with her chest, sending her flying into a wheel of the wagon. She hits with a sickening crunch.

I pant, heart racing. Two guards remain within striking distance; the other two are near the wagon. The clamor is too loud—I can’t keep track. Where is Daeva?

As if in answer, a feral growl echoes across the road. Daeva appears from behind the wagon, cloak flaring, black markings rippling along his arms. He’s chosen that moment to strike, apparently deciding he can’t remain idle. Magic crackles around him, dark and ominous. The guards near the wagon spin, eyes wide with terror.

“Your House Vaerathis wants me?” he hisses, voice resonant with lethal anger. “They should’ve sent more than a handful of you.”

A slash of chaotic power lances from his outstretched hand, ripping into one guard with unstoppable force. The other tries to flee but Daeva intercepts her, hooking her blade with a single fluid motion and twisting it free. She staggers, fear etched in her features.

I blink, forcing myself to refocus. The two guards flanking me seize advantage of my distraction. One charges from the left, blade angled for my ribs. I sidestep, bracing my wrist to deflect, but she’s quicker than I anticipate, steel biting into my shoulder. Pain flares hot. I stifle a cry, retaliating with a vicious slash. My dagger carves a shallow cut across her abdomen.

She gasps, stumbling, but her companion leaps in. I barely block the blow, arms shaking under the force. I need more power. The darkness beckons, seductive and potent. My vision blurs with red. Do it. Use it.

My lips peel back in a snarl. I let the demonic energy surge, ignoring the voice that warns me to hold back. Shadows coil around my arm, seeping into the dagger, turning the blade’s edge black with writhing magic. The next time the guard lunges, I slash—and the blade slices through her sword as if it’s made of parchment. Her eyes widen in mortal panic. I follow through, hacking into her torso. She collapses, choking.

The final guard behind me curses, spinning away from my savage strike. She tries a retreat, but I lunge, hooking her chainmail with my free hand. Shadows swirl around my fingers, hungry. With a roar, I siphon the life from her, just as I did that night in the wilderness. She lets out a final, tortured scream. Blood vessels burst across her face, and her body goes limp.

A heady rush of stolen vitality floods me, sending tremors down my spine. My breath shudders with the euphoria of borrowed strength. Stop, some rational part of me screams. Don’t lose yourself. I wrest the power back under control, letting her corpse slump to the ground.

The sudden hush that follows is broken only by ragged breathing—mine, and the slaves’ whimpers. Four guards lie dead or near-death around me, and the others, presumably, have fallen to Daeva. My blood chills. We survived…

I whirl around to see Daeva gripping a battered dark elf by her collar, magic crackling ominously around his wrist. Her face is twisted in pain, yet she spits curses at him. A flash of black tattoos covers his forearms, swirling in a mesmerizing pattern. My stomach lurches: He’s letting the demon in him feed.

“Tell me more about this order,” he demands, voice lethal. “Why does Vaerathis want me?”

She coughs, blood trickling down her lip. “The House… the old master… He’s close to reclaiming his youth,” she rasps, malice bright in her eyes. “He needs you to complete the ritual. The human is your tether. She’ll ensure you don’t… resist.”

My heart stutters. “What do you mean by that?” I move closer, ignoring the ache in my wounded shoulder. “Explain.”

The elf’s gaze flicks to me, contempt curling her lips. “You freed him from the mirror,” she sneers. “You’re the key. Our master will use you to bind him during the final ceremony. He wants both of you delivered?—”

She breaks off in a strangled cry as Daeva tightens his grip. “Shut up,” he growls, releasing a surge of power that leaves her gasping. “You know nothing.”

She spits blood at his feet. “If you kill me, more will come. House Vaerathis will never stop. They have your essence, demon. They always did. And her soul is just another piece in the puzzle.”

Rage twists Daeva’s features. With a snarl, he flings her aside. She collapses in a broken heap, chest barely rising. I stare, mind reeling. So they truly want me, and him… for some new ritual. My thoughts spin, recalling the half-truths Daeva told me about his curse, his thirst for revenge. He left out a lot, didn’t he?

The slaves remain huddled behind the wagon, eyes wide with terror. My anger shifts to compassion. I hurry over, ignoring the pain in my shoulder, grabbing the chain that binds them. One woman flinches, expecting cruelty, but I force a gentle tone. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re free now.”

I find the locking mechanism and slice through with a thread of shadow magic. They gasp, stepping back in awe and fear. “Go,” I urge. “We won’t harm you.” A wave of relief surges in me when they stumble away, some muttering thanks, others too dazed to speak. They vanish into the wilds, likely fleeing to the nearest settlement.

Daeva stands motionless amid the carnage, the last dark elf’s ragged breaths fading by the second. My entire body thrums with leftover adrenaline, the swirl of questions thickening. I glare at him, chest tight. “You heard what she said. Something about using me to bind you. About finishing a ritual that grants immortality?”

His face is a mask of stony fury. “She was delirious, spouting Vaerathis propaganda. Don’t believe everything.”

I bristle, stepping forward. “Don’t lie to me,” I snap, voice trembling with anger. “She recognized us both. She said your old master needs us. Why? What does he plan to do?”

His jaw works, eyes dark with conflict. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does ,” I insist, hand curling into a fist at my side. “You’re planning something. You always were. And now they want me, too. I have a right to know.”

He meets my gaze, the bond between us pulsing with tension. I feel the swirl of guilt and desperation in him, though he tries to hide it. “Stop asking,” he says coldly, turning away. “We have to move before others come.”

Something in me snaps. The old wounds from our training, from him dismissing my worth, flare up. “You can’t keep treating me like a pawn,” I hiss, voice cutting. “You owe me the truth!”

He spins, eyes flashing. For a moment, raw pain surfaces in his expression, then he locks it down. “I owe you nothing,” he grits out, though the tremor in his voice betrays him. “I’m protecting you.”

I scoff, heart pounding. “Protecting me from what? Myself? Or the knowledge that you plan to die ? Because it sure sounds like the House wants to finish a ritual that leads to your death—and apparently mine, too!”

He flinches as though struck. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand!” I nearly shout. The wind whips dust across my boots. “Tell me why they need us both. Why you were in that mirror, why this ‘ancestor’ still lives—any of it. For once, let me in.”

He stares, silent, a thousand unspoken words burning behind his eyes. The air between us crackles with leftover magic, the stench of blood from the dead elves. Something in him quivers, as if he might finally yield. Then, with a hiss of breath, he looks away.

“I can’t,” he mutters. “Not now.”

Rage floods me. The bond thrums with my frustration, but he refuses to meet my gaze. I throw my hands up, letting a few sparks of dark power flicker off my fingertips. “Fine,” I bite out, voice unsteady. “I’m done prying answers out of you. If you won’t share them willingly, maybe I’ll find them myself.”

Without waiting for a reply, I stalk away from the carnage, ignoring the throbbing in my shoulder. The setting sun casts elongated shadows across the dusty road. Daeva calls my name, but I don’t turn. My entire being trembles with anger and a deeper hurt. I gave him my soul. I risked everything, yet he still shuts me out?

I trudge up the slope, away from the massacre. Once at the top, I find a hollow behind a craggy boulder and collapse there, pressing my hand to my bleeding shoulder. The cut isn’t deep, but it stings. My heartbeat echoes in my ears. So House Vaerathis wants to bring me back, to control him? A final ceremony to claim immortality? Is that the same ritual that created him as a demon?

Memories swirl: the cursed mirror, the catacombs, Daeva’s vow for revenge. He wants to kill the ancient elf who betrayed him. Could it be the same “master” who’s ordering these scouts to retrieve us? Likely. My throat tightens. But how does that tie to me?

Tears sting my eyes, a potent mix of confusion and fury. The taste of old fear lurks beneath my anger. If Vaerathis truly hunts me, I might lose everything—my fragile freedom, my friends, the powers I’ve only begun to wield. Or worse: Daeva might still plan to sacrifice us both if it means destroying his foe.

I lean my head back against the rock, swallowing hard. Night approaches, chill creeping in. Eventually, the shuffle of footsteps signals his arrival behind me. I sense his presence before he speaks: the bond faintly thrumming, a dark whisper in my blood. I keep my eyes on the horizon.

He stands there, silent for a moment. Then he exhales. “Your wound,” he murmurs. “Let me see.”

My chest constricts with warring impulses. I want to lash out, tell him to leave me alone. Another part yearns for the comfort of his touch, the way he bandaged me in the past, the quiet gentleness lurking under his harsh front. Reluctantly, I pull the torn fabric aside, exposing the cut. Blood mats my sleeve.

He crouches, producing a strip of cloth from his pack. The tension weighs heavily as he cleans the wound, careful but efficient. My breathing hitches at the sting, though his hands are steady, emanating warmth. When he finishes, he binds it, tying the cloth snugly around my shoulder. The closeness sends flickers of memory— his arms around me, the heat of his lips. Anger coexists with longing, an agonizing combination.

We remain in tense silence. Finally, I lift my gaze, finding his eyes. “Why won’t you tell me?” I ask softly. “Is it so terrible that I can’t handle it?”

His jaw clenches. “You want honesty?”

I nod, heart hammering.

He breathes once, staring at the bloody cloth in his hands. “If I complete the ritual—if I kill the old ancestor—the magic might end me as well.” His voice is low, each word weighed with care. “I was cursed with him, bound to his life. If he dies, so might I.”

I swallow, that old dread surfacing. “You said you wanted to die,” I whisper. “That you longed for an end to your existence.”

His eyes flick to me, pained. “Maybe I do. But… there’s more. If the ceremony restarts… you’re tied to me, Calla. Our contract. You—” He falters, as though the words physically hurt him. “You might be dragged down with me.”

A cold wave crashes through my body. So I might die if he proceeds. My thoughts race. “Then… you can’t do it. You can’t finish the ritual.”

He flinches, heartbreak flickering in his gaze. I realize he’s caught between vengeance and what he feels for me—though he’d never admit it. “House Vaerathis might not give us a choice,” he mutters. “They want to bind me, use you to control me, and force the ritual to their advantage. Possibly to restore their old master’s youth, or to twist it to a new purpose. I don’t know.”

My lips part, horror twisting my stomach. “You… you knew this was a risk all along?”

His silence is answer enough. Fury surges again. “So you were prepared to drag me into your death wish? Did you ever plan to tell me I might die for your revenge?”