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13

CALLA

I wake to the slow drip of rain through the thatched roof. The droplets plink on the dusty floorboards, a steady, hollow rhythm that burrows into my skull. Beneath it, my chest aches with each breath, and my bandaged eyes sting. It takes me a moment to remember where I am, to recall that the warm presence by my side—Daeva—has once again risen and left me alone.

Everything is black. That’s my world now—a curtain of ink that won’t lift, even when I blink. No shapes, no colors, only an unrelenting void that taunts me every time I try to shift my head. If I concentrate, I can sense a faint difference in the direction of the light; the left side of my face might be marginally warmer, but it offers no comfort. I’m as good as lost.

I exhale shakily. My tears come unbidden, and I feel the thick, sticky warmth of blood weeping from beneath the cloth that covers my ruined eyes. The pain is constant—a low throb that spikes whenever I move too fast. I try not to cry, but the tears slip free anyway. They course down my cheeks, mixing with the slow, searing drip of blood.

I lift a trembling hand, gingerly pressing against the bandage. My fingertips come away slick. Another day of the same. The hut around me—though I cannot see it—reeks of mildew and old wood. The walls must be sagging, judging by how the wind rattles them in the night. When Daeva found this place, we were both on the edge of collapse. A roof, however faulty, was better than open sky.

I’m not sure how long we’ve been here—perhaps a full day, maybe two. Time slipped away after the frantic flight from the cave and the mirror’s shattering. My memories are tangled in fever and pain, anchored only by the echo of Daeva’s voice, the warmth of his hands dressing my wounds. The guilt in his tone whenever he speaks…

A scuff of footsteps draws my attention. My head whips around, but there’s nothing to see, only darkness. My pulse quickens, tension coiling. Then his voice—familiar, if frayed—fills the silence.

“I’m back,” Daeva says softly. The sound of him dropping something on the floor, perhaps a bundle. “Sorry it took long. The forest’s near empty of game.”

He’s been hunting or scavenging. Again, all for me, for us, while I lie here like dead weight. My throat tightens with shame. I force the words out, voice husky. “Any luck?”

A pause. “A hare, scrawny. Better than nothing.” He moves closer; I feel his hand slide under my elbow, steadying me. “How do you feel?”

It’s such a futile question, but the concern in his voice chips at my defenses. I swallow. “Same,” I whisper. “Blind, hurting, and… cold.”

He exhales. I imagine him nodding, regret etched into every line of his body. “Let’s get you near the fire. I started it earlier, though it’s burning low.”

He coaxes me upright. My entire body protests. I clench my teeth against the pain. Daeva guides me carefully across the slanted floor, one arm braced around my waist. Every step is precarious. The slightest tilt and I might stumble, falling headlong into black nothingness. My heart races as he settles me on what passes for a seat—some crate or stool with a missing leg. It wobbles, but he keeps a grip on my shoulder until I’m stable.

“There,” he murmurs. I hear him crouch, possibly building up the fire with bits of damp wood. The hut is so cramped that the corners might be within arm’s reach, but I can’t be certain. All I know is the crackle of flames as they’re coaxed to life, the slight warmth that tickles my face.

We sit in silence for a time. The hush weighs heavily, thick with all the things we haven’t said since everything fell apart. At last, I break it, my voice trembling. “Daeva… do you think we can keep traveling soon? I—I can’t see how.”

He’s quiet for a second too long. “Not in your condition,” he admits softly. “And I’m not well myself. The crossbow bolt’s poison is still in my veins. We push ourselves now, and we might not survive.”

A lump lodges in my throat. We’re stranded. “I’m sorry,” I say, voice fracturing. “I know I’m slowing you down.”

He hisses in exasperation. “Stop that,” he snaps, though not unkindly. “You never asked for this. I’m the reason you lost your eyes. If anything, blame me.”

A fragile laugh escapes me, hollow and sad. “I don’t blame you. I chose to walk this path. I—” My breath catches. “I’d choose it again, even after all this.”

He doesn’t speak, but I sense him shift closer. The bond between us thrums, laced with guilt and something deeper. I recall how we sealed our contract with that savage kiss, how the mirror shards stole my sight. My entire future changed in a heartbeat, yet I can’t regret staying by his side.

Time passes in hushed tension. Eventually, he leaves me alone with the guttering fire, mumbling that he’ll try to cook the hare. My throat is so dry, but I don’t have the will to ask for water. I hear him rummaging on the side, likely scraping the last bits of salt from our dwindling supplies. The roof drips in the corner, each plop a reminder of how broken our refuge is.

I shift, feeling the creeping numbness in my legs. My chest feels tight, anxiety swirling. I can’t just sit here, losing hope. Summoning courage, I push to my feet, ignoring the spike of pain. My arms extend, searching for a wall or a table to keep balance. My fingertips brush rough wood, damp and speckled with moss. Step by step, I inch forward.

My body protests every movement, but I grit my teeth, determined not to be a burden. If Daeva can hunt in his wounded state, I can at least stand. My foot catches on something—a broken chair? My heart seizes with panic as I nearly topple. My hands slam into the wall, scraping my palms. Pain flares, but I keep from crying out.

“Careful,” Daeva warns from across the hut, hearing the commotion.

“I’m fine,” I lie. My voice wobbles. “I just… needed to move.”

He hesitates, then I sense him returning to his task. Good. Let him see I won’t surrender to darkness.

Shuffling along the wall, I feel the soaked straw stuffed between the planks. Each slow step sets my nerves on edge. My shoulder aches, my bandaged eyes throb, but I manage a few paces before I must rest. Breathing heavily, I lean on the wall. Then it happens.

A spark of pale luminescence flickers in my vision—like a mote of light dancing across a black canvas. I freeze. My mind reels. Did I imagine that? Then another mote appears, drifting ghostlike in the void. My breath catches. That’s impossible… I can’t see. Yet here they are, swirling flecks of faint silver glimmer.

They swirl faster, merging into patterns that ache behind my ruined eyes. And then the darkness cracks, not into sight but into memory —jarring, vivid scenes that assault me:

A grand hall, polished floors reflecting torchlight. Hooded dark elves chanting in a circle. Their voices resonate with arcane power. One steps forward, lifting a ceremonial dagger that glints ominously. A human youth is dragged into the center, wrists bound, eyes wide with terror. He’s slender, his face gaunt with fear. He pleads in a language I don’t recognize, voice cracking…

I gasp, lurching backward. The vision intensifies. I see the elves forcing the dagger to his chest, see shimmering runes carved into the floor. A mirror stands at the hall’s far side—massive, etched with the same runes we saw in that cursed ruin. The boy’s scream tears through my skull. Blood splashes, and in the mirror’s reflection, I glimpse an older elf, his features twisted, leaning on a staff. He cackles as the youth collapses, life draining away. The hall swirls with dark magic.

“Stop,” I choke, pressing my hands to my face, heedless of the pain. My voice trembles. “Gods, stop.”

But it doesn’t stop. The vision warps, plunging me deeper. That same boy—Daeva—writhes on the floor, hair matted with blood, eyes glazed with betrayal. I see arcs of raw power swirl around him, the chanting intensifying. The ancient elf presides over it all, grinning as though he’s absorbing the boy’s essence. Then blackness swallows everything.

I jolt, staggering until I hit the floor. My heart hammers as the motes of silver fade, leaving me panting in the real world—alone in the hut. My hands shake. What did I just witness?

“Calla!” Daeva’s frantic footsteps approach. He kneels, voice taut with worry. “What happened?”

I gasp, tears flooding behind the bandages. “I… saw,” I stutter. “I saw the day you were sacrificed, Daeva. When…you were human.”

His breath hitches. “How?—?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper, voice shaking. “I think… the mirror shards in my eyes… they’re making me see fragments of your past.” I can hardly form the words, still trembling from the horror of that ceremony.

Daeva’s arms wrap around me, surprisingly gentle. “You shouldn’t have to bear that,” he murmurs, voice thick. “My memories… they’re curses unto themselves.”

I lean into him, seeking a moment’s solace in his warmth. He’s gone through so much. I exhale shakily. “It’s not just a memory, though,” I manage to say. “It felt like I was… there . Like I hold a piece of that mirror, letting me see your life as if it’s my own.”

He sighs, guilt radiating from him. “I’m sorry.”

I swallow, forcing back the tears. “We’ll figure it out.”

Before we can delve deeper, a sudden chill prickles my skin. The door creaks. My heart leaps in alarm—who else could be here? I push off Daeva, mustering a tense readiness. We can’t handle another battle.

A calm voice resonates from the threshold. “I bring news. No quarrel, unless you force it.”

A dark elf. I hear Daeva snarl, rising to confront this intruder. My pulse pounds as the newcomer steps inside, boots scraping the floor, carrying an air of smug confidence.

“Speak fast,” Daeva growls, venom in every syllable.

The elf chuckles, unperturbed. “I’m but a messenger. My mistress sends word: You are expected at House Vaerathis in five days, demon. Bring your mortal pet.”

My heart drops. Vaerathis… they found us. I shift, struggling to stand, but Daeva’s hand steadies me, his grip firm.

The messenger’s tone drips condescension. “If you do not appear, your dear friends—Silas, Cole, Ryn, and Jenna, I believe—will be executed. Painfully.” He chuckles. “We have them in our dungeons, ready to serve as leverage.”

I clench my fists, rage surging. They have my friends? A wave of helpless fury coils around my soul, mirrored by the tense stillness in Daeva.

He speaks, words clipped: “You dare threaten us, worm?”

The elf snorts. “I come bearing a benevolent offer, if you can call it that. Return, let the House complete its ritual, or watch your allies die. The choice is yours.”

Silence. My pulse thunders. Ritual… so they do intend to harness Daeva again, using me as the tether. My friends are hostages in a monstrous negotiation. We can’t ignore this. We can’t run.

Daeva’s voice wavers with anger. “Leave,” he orders, though a tremor betrays how close he is to snapping.

A sneer laces the messenger’s voice. “Of course. My mistress expects your presence at Vaerathis. Five days, no more.”

I sense the elf turning to depart, but he halts mid-step. “Though, if you’re wise, demon, you should surrender. Or perhaps you’d rather see your mortal lover suffer. After all, we both know that if the old master dies, you die—and so might she.”

That’s the final straw. Daeva lunges with a guttural snarl. There’s a harsh clang, a brief scuffle of limbs. I cry out, lurching forward blindly. Metal hits flesh with a sickening squelch. The messenger’s scream chokes off, replaced by wet gurgling.

Then silence. A body thuds to the floor. Hot blood seeps into the old wood, the smell nauseating. My hand covers my mouth as I stifle a sob. Killing the messenger…

“Daeva!” I rasp. “What?—?”

He pants, voice trembling with unspent fury. “I won’t let them toy with us.”

I swallow hard, tears squeezing past the bandages. “But now they’ll send more, and they might harm my friends anyway.”

His anger crackles, then ebbs into despair. “I’m sorry,” he manages, pained. “I couldn’t… that elf threatened you again.”

Weariness drapes over me like a lead blanket. I sink to the floor, trembling. We’re in no condition to outrun Vaerathis. If we do, our friends die. If we go, the House might complete the ritual, killing me and Daeva. My breath shakes. “We can’t run away anymore,” I whisper. “We have to face them.”

He kneels beside me, voice low, anguished. “I’m tired, Calla. Tired of fighting a war that started centuries ago. But if the ritual is completed, you might cease to exist. If the ancient elf is slain, I die, dragging you with me. I… I don’t know how to protect you from every outcome.”

A wave of helplessness courses through me. He’s cornered by the threads of destiny. My lips tremble. Memories of that sacrificial vision swirl, the hum of old magic in my blood. Something stirs—a faint echo of the mirror’s voice, or the darkness behind my eyes. I speak words I barely comprehend, a cryptic truth welling up from the depths of my newfound ability:

“Fate isn’t a blade that cuts only one way,” I murmur, voice distant. “Nor is magic a chain we can’t break. It’s an ocean—fluid, shifting, shaped by every drop of will we pour into it. You were cast into its depths centuries ago, and I followed you in. Now we’re submerged together. We might drown, or we might find a current to carry us somewhere neither of us expected.”

He listens, silent. My heart races, fear and hope tangling in my chest. “Each ritual, each bond, it’s a thread in a tapestry. The House wants to weave it to their design, but we can tug the threads free if we’re brave enough. Yes, we’re battered. Yes, every path seems doomed. But water changes direction when new rivers flow into it. So does destiny, when two souls refuse to be shaped by it.”

A tear of blood slips down my cheek. Daeva’s breath hitches, his hand brushing against mine. I sense the conflict raging in him. “You’re… too kind,” he whispers, voice raw. “After all I’ve done, all the pain this curse caused you?—”

I squeeze his fingers, ignoring the dull throb in my eyes. “I chose this. I chose you. Maybe it ends in destruction, but maybe not. We can’t know unless we try.”

He bows his head, trembling. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he exhales, a tremor in the sound. “Then we face them in five days,” he concedes. “We find a way to break their hold on us. Or we die trying.”

A wave of exhaustion sweeps over me. But relief, oddly, mingles with it—an acceptance that we’ll no longer run, but stand. I lean my head on his shoulder, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. Our bodies ache, but for an instant, we share a fragile peace.

Outside, the rain slackens, leaving only the drip from the eaves. We remain entwined in the gloom, the flicker of dying firelight dancing across the broken walls. I can’t see the flames, but I feel their faint warmth on my face. I can’t see Daeva, yet I sense the shape of his body, the tension in his muscles, the unspoken devotion in his trembling breath. He’s as wounded as I am, trapped in this labyrinth of curses.

I rest my hand over his chest, sensing the slow rise and fall. “No matter what happens,” I whisper, “we meet them on our terms.”

He nods, voice barely above a breath. “We will.”

When fatigue claims me, I let it drag me under, comforted by the steady drum of his heartbeat. The path ahead is bleak, but the faint current of fate stirs in my veins, whispering that the tapestry of magic might yield to our combined wills. I choose to trust that, no matter the cost.

Hours later—or perhaps it’s the next morning—I stir from fitful sleep. My eyelids flutter, but the world remains dark. A sinking dread tries to take hold, but I force it down. Remember who you are , I tell myself. A blind woman with a demon’s bond, but still alive. My shoulder throbs anew, the bandages stiff with dried blood. My lips are parched, and a haze of hunger lingers.

Daeva must sense me stirring. He shifts, his presence immediately at my side. “Calla?”

I nod, or try to. “Still here,” I rasp.

He presses a cup to my lips. Water. I drink greedily, savoring the cool relief. My body quivers with gratitude at the faint nourishment.

In the hush, I recall the messenger’s final threat: five days. I have no sense of how many have passed. One? Two? Time is a blur in my sightless world. But Daeva and I will need every moment to regain enough strength to make the journey back to Vaerathis.

The thought twists my stomach. “We should plan,” I say, struggling to mask my fear. “We can’t just walk in unprepared.”

He exhales. “Agreed. But rest a bit more. The more we push ourselves, the slower we heal.”

A humorless laugh escapes me. “What good is healing if I can’t see?”

His silence stabs me. For all his demonic resilience, he has no miracle to restore my vision. My breath shudders, tears of frustration pooling behind the cloth. Yet I must keep going.

I shift carefully, wincing at a jolt of pain in my shoulder. Summoning courage, I reach out, fumbling until my hand finds his arm. “Daeva, show me how to move around. I can’t stay on this floor forever. I need… to adapt.”

He hesitates, then his tone softens. “All right. Lean on me.”

Thus begins a painstaking exercise: letting him guide me around the cramped hut, showing me the approximate layout. My hands slide along the splintered walls, counting steps from the corner to the meager hearth. He warns me of a rotten patch in the floor near the door, a tangle of broken furniture in one corner. My legs shake from the effort, but I refuse to relent.

At some point, I stub my toe on a hidden stool and nearly crash forward. Pain flares in my raw eyes, tears and blood trickling anew. Daeva catches me, arms around my waist, breath harsh in my ear. “Enough,” he pleads. “You’re hurting.”

I bite down on a whimper, frustration scorching my throat. “I have to learn,” I force out, swallowing tears. “If we’re returning to Vaerathis, I won’t be helpless.”

He sighs, lifting me as if I weigh nothing, depositing me carefully on a makeshift bedding of hay and old blankets. My heart clenches with both gratitude and longing—once again, reliant on him. “Rest,” he orders gently. “Or you’ll collapse.”

I yield, trembling. He covers me with his cloak. The taste of tears lingers, and I drift into uneasy dreams. In them, I see more flickers of memory: dark elves chanting, mirrors shattering, Daeva’s terrified eyes as the dagger sank into his flesh. Thunder booms, and my own scream merges with his.

When I snap awake, the shadows in my mind remain. My heart pounds. I have become a living mirror, I think in silent horror, reflecting Daeva’s darkest memories. Yet maybe these visions hold the key to unraveling the House’s ritual. If only I can decipher them.

An indeterminate stretch of time passes—sunset or sunrise, I cannot tell. Daeva hunts once more, leaving me alone. This time, though fear needles at my stomach, I force myself to move around the hut. Step by step, counting paces from the hearth to the door. The floor complains underfoot. My bandaged eyes burn, but I endure.

Midway through, a jolt of sharp pain spears my temples. I cry out, collapsing against the wall. The motes of silver float in the blackness. Memories strike again: flickers of runes carved into a mirror’s frame, the old ancestor chanting over Daeva’s limp body, threads of magic swirling like serpents. I see a younger elf woman crying in the background, her face contorted with guilt. Then it fades, leaving me panting, tears streaking my cheeks.

My mind reels. Another puzzle piece. Were these actual events, or illusions conjured by the shard-laden darkness behind my eyes? My heart aches for Daeva, forced into this fate centuries ago. And for that unknown elf who wept for him. Did she regret his sacrifice?

Daeva returns soon after, to find me slumped in a corner, tears of blood staining my bandages. He rushes forward, cursing his slow pace. “Calla,” he breathes, voice shaking, “are you all right?”

I cling to him, trembling. “I saw more,” I whisper, explaining haltingly the images that flooded me. He listens, jaw clenched, guilt clouding his tone.

I breathe shallowly, heart raw with anguish. “We can’t keep running, you said it yourself. We have to face them. Whether it kills us or not.”

He groans, pressing his forehead to my shoulder. “I’m so tired, Calla. Tired of living under this curse—knowing if the old elf dies, I die too, and thus you. Tired of them holding your friends hostage. I— I hate it.”

My throat tightens. I cradle his head, ignoring the flare of pain in my arms. “We’ll do what we must,” I whisper. “Even if the ritual kills me, kills you… we can’t let them keep my friends in chains.”

I lean in, pressing my forehead to his. “I might be blind, but these shards let me glimpse your past, your pain—and maybe the ritual’s secrets. Perhaps that’s our thread, Daeva: a hidden path in the darkness. We still have time to twist fate a little. Five days, they said. Five days to muster what strength remains.”

He cups my face gently, mindful of my injuries. “You’re not giving up, even like this,” he marvels, voice husky with awe. “You never cease to amaze me.”

A small, sad smile curves my lips. “You gave me my first taste of freedom. I won’t let it end in a Vaerathis dungeon.”

His answering laugh is choked with tears. “Then so be it. We go. We fight, or yield, or do something in between. But we do it together. ”

Relief mingles with terror in my chest. I let him pull me close, the stench of blood and sweat thick in my nose. My arms wrap around his torso, ignoring the pain. For a moment, we exist in a fragile embrace—two broken souls in a battered hut, the storm of destiny swirling outside.

We have five days to reach Vaerathis. Five days to plan an impossible rescue. Five days to defy an immortal tyrant’s hunger for vengeance. I feel the bond between us, pulsing with renewed resolve. Despite my blindness, despite his lethal injuries, we hold each other in the gloom, forging a vow to shape fate instead of bowing to it.

“Are you sure?” he asks quietly, voice muffled in my hair. “If the ritual completes, you’ll vanish with me. If we kill him, I might drag you to oblivion. I can’t— I can’t promise you’ll live.”

My heart trembles, but I steady it. “I made my choice long ago, Daeva. My life is bound to yours. No regrets. Let’s show them that a mortal and a demon can unravel their precious immortality.”

A shiver courses through him. Then he nods, breath shuddering. “We’ll leave soon, once we can stand, once we gather enough strength. And House Vaerathis will face the consequences.”

The flickering fire crackles, lighting the darkness I cannot see. My future is as black as the void behind my bandaged eyes. But in my chest, a tiny ember of hope flares. The silver motes swirl in my mind, reminding me I’ve become something new—a living mirror, a reflection of an ancient evil turned against itself. If that power can help us, I’ll wield it. If not, I’ll still stand by Daeva, no matter what waits at Vaerathis.

I nestle closer, letting exhaustion claim me again. The steady beat of his heart lulls me, a promise that we’re not alone in this nightmare. Outside, the wind moans, the corpse of a second messenger lies in cold pools of blood, and far away, House Vaerathis tightens its net. But we remain in each other’s arms, forging our own path in the shifting currents of fate and magic.

Five days , I think, counting my ragged breaths. Let them come. Fate can tangle and snare us, or break under our will. We’ve come this far, after all—slaves no longer, but conspirators in a dance that might shatter an empire. I cling to that thought as the darkness deepens behind my eyes, drifting into uneasy sleep. And in my final hazy moment, I feel Daeva’s breath whisper over my forehead, carrying a promise unspoken yet fiercely real.