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DAEVA

I exhale a slow breath and step off the final rung of the ladder, feeling the bone-deep chill of the catacombs ease—just enough for me to straighten my spine. I keep a measured distance behind the mortal girl, my gaze falling on the tense line of her shoulders. She stands at the threshold of this cramped storeroom, a wooden bucket left abandoned on the floor. I notice how her hand hovers near it, as though she’s torn between retrieving the bucket and fleeing for her life.

She turns, eyes flicking toward me with a mix of awe and fear. For a moment, I’m struck by the rawness in her hazel gaze—like she never expected to stand in the presence of something like me and remain alive. Neither did I, once, so long ago that my memories blur into half-remembered nightmares.

I shouldn’t linger on that. Not now.

“Which way?” I ask quietly. It’s a simple question, but I want to gauge her sense of direction. If she’s half as resourceful as she appears, she might know the path out of this subterranean maze without attracting too much attention.

She bites her lower lip and points back through the door she came from. A rag lies in a puddle of murky water, evidence of her menial tasks. “We go through that corridor—there’s a staircase leading up.” Her voice is unsteady, but not broken. “It’s guarded, though. At least, it was.”

Her mention of a guard doesn’t concern me as much as it should. I’ve dealt with far worse than a single elf or two. Yet I keep my expression neutral. “Then we’ll deal with the guard if we must,” I say. I walk forward, and she yields space, pressing her back against the stone wall to let me pass.

She smells of stale sweat and fear, but beneath that I detect something subtle—resilience. A will that sets her apart from the quivering, helpless mortal I might have expected to find in a place like this. It intrigues me.

“Come,” I say, voice low. “We don’t have much time.”

The corridor beyond is narrow, lit by only a single sconce flickering with weak, orange light. The shadows dance in the corners, and the moist stone underfoot makes each step slightly perilous. I tread without sound, my senses on high alert. This entire place brims with an undercurrent of energy that reminds me of the rituals performed here long ago, rituals that shaped me into what I am now. The walls practically hum with residual power, yet it’s stale, half-awake, not the living chaos I remember.

I glance behind me and see the girl—Calla, if I recall her name from the whispers in the mirror’s half-life. She follows, knuckles tight around the handle of her cleaning bucket. Why does she still carry that worthless thing? Perhaps it’s the only semblance of security she has. The idea almost makes me laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

We edge down the passage. I keep to the right, scanning each recess. From behind a boarded-up doorway, I sense movement or perhaps just the shift of stale air. Calla’s breath catches, and she lifts the bucket like a shield. I hold up one hand in a silent gesture to wait. The boards are covered in rot, but nothing emerges. After a few heartbeats, we continue.

My mind churns with questions: how long have I languished in that mirror, locked away from the mortal realm? Centuries, certainly. But it felt like an endless cycle, time coiling in on itself until I forgot my own voice. And now, here I am, awoken by this slip of a girl who has no idea what she’s unleashed.

I also wonder why I don’t sense his presence—the one whose name I dare not speak just yet. The bond is still there, distant and loathsome, but it feels muted compared to what I remember. Perhaps time has drained his power. Or perhaps he’s only begun to stir.

Ahead, a faint glow suggests a larger intersection or chamber. Calla stops me with a light tug on my sleeve. I stiffen, not accustomed to being touched uninvited, but I don’t snap at her. Instead, I tilt my head, a silent question.

She leans in close, voice barely above a whisper. “There might be a guard posted. He left me here earlier. Sathrin—he’s cruel, even for a dark elf.”

The mention of cruelty from her perspective interests me. Mortals often speak of the elves’ malice, but I recall a time when their cruelty was tempered by arrogance—a sense that they were above the rest of the world. Now, hearing her, it sounds more personal, more brutal than the distant memories I harbor.

“I’ll handle him,” I say softly, then pause. “Unless you’d rather not see…what I might do.”

Her eyes go wide, flecks of gold catching the faint light. She swallows, as though imagining the horror that might come next. “No. I just—I don’t want him sounding an alarm. There are more elves up there.”

“I understand.” And I do. Confrontation is inevitable, but stealth might preserve her life a little longer. “Stay behind me.”

We round the corner, and sure enough, there’s a flight of stone steps leading up to a landing. The guard—Sathrin, presumably—stands partway up, leaning against the wall with a torch in one hand and a bored sneer on his face. He shifts his weight, scanning the darkness below. Even from this distance, I see the contempt etched in his features, as if he believes the occupant of these catacombs isn’t worth caution.

In a moment, I weigh my options: I can rush him, silence him before he yells. Or I can employ subtler methods. My power is still stirring, not at full strength, but enough.

I slip into the shadows, guiding Calla with a gentle push to keep her behind me. Each footstep is perfectly silent, a trick I learned in a life I can barely recall. The torchlight wavers, and Sathrin’s eyes drift across the corridor. I sense his mild unease—perhaps the catacombs are rumored to be haunted.

He doesn’t see me until I’m nearly upon him. His gaze snaps to mine, and in that instant, I unleash a whisper of my darkness.

My hand darts out and clamps around his wrist. He inhales sharply, shock widening his eyes. I can feel the faint thrum of his lifeblood under his skin, the rush of adrenaline as he realizes a predator has found him. Before he can shout, I channel the dark energy coiled in my veins—just enough to sap his strength.

Sathrin sputters, dropping the torch. It lands on the stone with a dull clatter, rolling toward Calla’s feet. She flinches away, fear in her expression, but no scream escapes her throat. Good.

The guard tries to jerk free, but I tighten my grip. He’s bigger than a typical elf guard I remember, but that strength means little against demonic power. My lips curve into a cold smile. “Scream and you die.”

He glares, lips trembling. “W-what the?—”

I press a wave of paralyzing cold into his arm, and he stiffens from head to toe. He can’t even open his mouth now. Gently, I guide him to sit on the step so he won’t collapse and make a racket. His eyes plead, but I maintain the hold.

Calla steps closer, bucket clutched to her chest. “Is he…dead?” she whispers.

“No. But he’s helpless.” I release a fraction of my hold, and he sucks in a ragged breath, able to speak again.

His voice shakes. “Y-you—What are you?”

“Does it matter?” I reply, letting venom thread my words. My gaze flicks to Calla, and I notice the way her features twist with conflict. She’s afraid, but she also hates this guard. She hates everything he represents.

She meets my stare, and I see the question in her eyes. Are you going to kill him? The curious side of me wants to see her reaction. If I do kill him, would she be horrified or relieved?

But caution wins out. A dead guard might raise more suspicion than one who’s been subdued. Perhaps it’s better to leave him here, incapacitated. I shift my hand to his throat, ignoring his frantic attempts to move. “We’re going to walk up those stairs,” I tell him quietly. “And you’re not going to make a sound.”

He winces as the cold intensifies. “I—yes, yes, anything.”

I let go and stand, beckoning Calla to follow. The guard remains seated, body trembling. She nudges the torch aside and slides past him, giving him a fearful glance. He remains silent, unwilling to provoke me.

At the top of the stairs, the corridor broadens, and I feel the dryness of artificially warmed air. It indicates we’re closer to the main levels of House Vaerathis, a place that should reek of elven arrogance. My own memories—ancient as they are—suggest that the architecture above might feature tall arches, black marble, the Vaerathis crest molded into iron gates.

Calla tries to keep her footsteps quiet. The hallway ahead is lined with half-burned torches, their smoke swirling toward the vaulted ceiling. Each step I take resonates with an odd sense of déjà vu, as if I’ve walked these corridors in another life. But that’s impossible. The best explanation is that all dark elf fortresses share a certain stifling grandeur.

We reach a junction where the hallway diverges. To the left, I sense open space, perhaps an atrium or courtyard. To the right, a narrower corridor with closed doors. Calla hovers at my side, uncertain.

“This way,” she whispers, gesturing to the left. “It leads to the slave quarters, then out to the main yard. If we can reach the outer walls…”

She doesn’t finish, probably because the idea of actually escaping House Vaerathis is madness. Still, I give a curt nod and let her lead.

Her shoulders tense with every footstep, as if she expects a swarm of guards to appear. The corridor is strangely empty, though. I find that ominous—it could mean the elves sense something is off and are gathering to hunt us. My jaw tightens. Let them come.

Before we reach the archway at the corridor’s end, Calla halts abruptly, pressing herself back against the wall and signaling me to do the same. I step closer, half into an alcove.

Voices echo from around the corner. I close my eyes, focusing on each syllable.

“…the overseer said the slave girl—Calla—went down to the catacombs with Sathrin.”

“And you trust that idiot? He’s probably napping. Either that, or something worse. You know the stories.”

Two distinct voices, both male, both draped in that casual darkness typical of House Vaerathis. My fingers twitch with impatience.

Calla casts me a questioning look, and I grasp the meaning: Do we hide or fight? I don’t mind a fight. In fact, some part of me itches for violence, for the release that comes from punishing these elves. Yet a direct confrontation might draw too much attention. We still have no guarantee we can leave these halls freely.

“We can slip past,” I mouth, gesturing to the shadows along the far side of the corridor. She nods, face set with grim determination.

We move in tandem, hugging the wall. The voices continue around the corner. I catch glimpses of movement: two elves, backlit by the glow of an unseen brazier. They seem distracted, discussing the catacombs, Tovel, something about an upcoming gathering.

Then one says, “Lord Kaelith will be furious if?—”

A sudden hush.

One of them must have heard or sensed us, even with our careful steps. I tense. Calla sucks in a sharp breath. The second elf murmurs, “What was that?”

I see their silhouettes shift. One steps forward, scanning the corridor. I press my body tight against the stone, hoping the darkness masks me, but I’m acutely aware of Calla’s ragged breathing.

Slowly, the elf advances. I weigh my options: if I use my powers again, it’ll be a matter of seconds before he’s subdued. But can I do it quietly enough so the other doesn’t raise the alarm?

Just as I gather a sliver of power, a muffled shout echoes from behind us—the direction of the catacombs. Likely Sathrin has regained enough mobility to call for help. The elf in front of us jerks at the sound, turning halfway around. The second elf curses.

“This way, hurry!” the second elf orders, pivoting to respond to the cry.

In that tiny window, I whisper to Calla, “Go!” and push her forward. We dart across the corridor, slipping behind a tall drapery and into the next hall. The elves’ footsteps rush in the opposite direction, and I’m left with the frantic pounding of my own heart.

We emerge into a narrower passage that bears the unmistakable scent of unwashed bodies—humans, more than likely. Calla’s expression falters at the familiar smell. “This leads to the slave dormitory,” she says, hushed. “But if they find me here…”

Her fear is warranted. If these dark elves locate her in the dormitory, it’ll be a death sentence—or worse. But she’s right about the layout. I can sense the press of many living souls in that direction. She must be thinking of the friend she mentioned. Silas, I recall.

I brush an errant curl of white hair from my forehead, frustration simmering. Time is not on our side. If Sathrin has regained enough voice to call for reinforcements, half the household could be alerted. The thought of slaughtering them all is tempting, but that would likely result in our demise—or at least hers.

I nod curtly. “We need to move fast.”

She hesitates. “I—Silas is in the dormitory. He’d help us. I can’t just vanish without telling him.”

The flicker of earnest devotion in her eyes surprises me. Humans often cling to each other in adversity, but her determination is fierce. “You risk everything for one mortal?”

She lifts her chin. “He’s my friend. My only friend. Yes, I risk it.”

I exhale, recalling echoes of a time when I, too, had friends. Or at least acquaintances—fellow humans who dared dream of freedom. That was before… No. I push the memory away. “Very well. Lead the way.”

The corridor soon opens into a cramped, low-ceilinged hall. A thick wooden door stands at the end, battered from use. Calla gestures for me to wait in the shadows while she creeps forward. With one ear to the door, she listens, then eases it open.

I slip in after her. The dormitory is a long, narrow room lined with rickety bunks, maybe two dozen or more. The stench of sweat and hopelessness clings to the air. Weak light filters through high windows. It’s quieter than I’d expect, likely because most slaves are out performing morning tasks. The few who remain look up, startled to see Calla, then more startled to see me.

At once, fear ripples through them, eyes going wide with the comprehension that I am not one of them, nor an elf. The faint swirl of darkness that seems to trail in my wake must set them on edge. One older woman covers her mouth, tears in her eyes.

A young man—likely Silas—bounds up from a low cot in the corner, nearly tripping over a stool. His hair is a shaggy mess, and his frame is thinner than I expected. “Calla?” he says, voice laced with panic. “They said you were— Are you all right?”

She nods, though tears pool in her eyes. “I’m fine for now.” Her voice quavers. She glances at me. “We’re leaving. Really leaving.”

Silas’s gaze rakes over me, alarm warring with confusion. He takes a slight step in front of Calla, protective. “Who…what is that?”

I don’t respond, letting Calla speak for me. “He’s helping us escape. I can’t explain right now, but we have to go before Tovel or Kaelith come.”

Murmurs break out among the few slaves left in the room. Their expressions are a mix of jealousy, longing, and terror. They all want to flee, but the risk is too great. They have no illusions about the cost if they’re caught.

Silas rubs his palms on his tattered trousers, glancing at the door we just came through. “I want to come, obviously, but how? The yard is crawling with guards. We can’t just stroll out.”

Calla opens her mouth, uncertain. She looks at me expectantly, as if I have the answers. And perhaps I do. My mind ticks through possibilities: illusions, brute force, infiltration. My power has been dormant for so long, I’m not sure how it will behave under such stress. But one thing is certain—we can’t wait here for the entire fortress to descend upon us.

“Is there another way out?” I ask, scanning the dormitory. “A servant’s passage, an unused corridor?”

A middle-aged man on a bunk near the back raises his head. “Th-there’s an old tunnel that leads beyond the walls,” he stammers. “Not many know about it. But it’s blocked.”

I turn to him. “Blocked how?”

He flinches under my gaze. “Collapsed years ago. Rumor says the Soz’garoth sealed it. Something about smuggling contraband.”

I grit my teeth. If powerful demon sorcerers—Soz’garoth—are involved, their wards might be tricky to bypass. But not impossible. Perhaps my own demonic energy can counter it.

Calla catches the thread of my plan. “If we can get to that tunnel, maybe we can break through? Even if it’s partially collapsed, we could slip out?”

Silas shakes his head. “That’s on the west side of the estate, near the stables. Guards patrol that area regularly.”

I consider the alternative: forging a direct route through the main gates. It would be suicide for any human alone, but with me…maybe not. Yet the risk remains sky high. We’ll be outnumbered. And if the entire household mobilizes, even my power might be pushed to its limit.

A ripple of tension moves through the gathered slaves. They’re clearly torn between the possibility of following us and the fear of harsh reprisals. I can sense their desperation. My eyes sweep over them, and though a small, cruel part of me suggests leaving them to their fate, I recall that it was a mortal who freed me from the mirror. A mortal who dared to risk her life.

With a short exhale, I speak: “Whoever wishes to come should do so now. We may not get another chance.”

At that, chaos erupts—soft cries, frantic shuffling. Some cast glances around, as though the walls themselves have ears. One or two stand, fists clenched, prepared to take the gamble. Others sink back, shaking their heads. It’s a personal choice, and I can’t blame them if they choose fear over certain punishment if caught.

Silas clenches Calla’s hand. “We’ll come with you,” he says. “Wherever you’re going.”

Calla nods, relief coloring her features. She looks at me. “So, which route?”

Before I can answer, the door to the corridor slams open. A breathless young elf stands there, not a guard but a messenger or scribe by the look of his simple garb. His eyes sweep over the dormitory, then land on me. The shock on his face is instantaneous.

He inhales to shout an alarm, but I’m faster. My power lashes out in a swift wave, hooking into the torch by the door and flinging it, still lit, straight toward the elf’s chest. He yelps and flinches backward, giving me precious seconds. I cross the distance and grab his tunic, clamping my other hand over his mouth.

He kicks wildly, but I hold firm. A surge of cold seeps from my fingertips into his body, sapping his strength. He stiffens, eyes rolling back, and crumples to the ground, only half-conscious.

Behind me, several slaves stifle gasps or avert their eyes. I sense their growing terror of me. That’s unavoidable. The sound of the scuffle, though brief, might have carried. We have no time left for quiet plans.

“Out the main gate, then,” I say quickly. “Now. All who dare.” I look to Calla. “I’ll handle any who stand in our way.”

She exchanges a glance with Silas, whose face is pale but resolute. Then she steels herself. “Okay,” she breathes. “Let’s go.”

Three other slaves get to their feet, trembling yet determined. The rest remain behind, either too fearful or convinced this is a suicidal mission. We can’t wait for them to debate further. I let Calla lead, guiding us back out into the corridor.

My senses prickle with incoming danger. Shouts echo from somewhere in the estate—Sathrin must have found help, or that messenger’s presence was part of a larger sweep. We move at a jog, passing lines of closed doors. At each intersection, I extend my awareness, trying to detect elf guards ahead of us. In my partially recovered state, I can sense the sparks of life around me, but not as precisely as I’d like.

We reach a pair of grand double doors carved with the Vaerathis crest: a twisted serpent devouring its own tail, signifying their endless pursuit of power. Beyond is a wide hallway, its walls lined with tall windows that overlook an inner courtyard. A swirl of cold morning air slips through the cracks, and I notice that the courtyard is dotted with armed patrols.

“How do we cross that?” Silas asks under his breath, peering through the glass. More than a dozen guards stand posted, some at gates, others on balconies.

I take a breath, feeling my demonic essence churn. “Be ready to run. I’ll create a distraction.”

Calla’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t protest. The slaves behind her shift anxiously, hugging the walls.

I push open the doors to the hallway and step inside. The corridor is large enough to echo with each footstep on polished stone. To the left, open archways lead into the courtyard. Immediately, a pair of guards notices me. One of them barks a question in Elvish, presumably demanding my identity.

I stay silent. Adrenaline floods my veins. My mind sharpens to a single point of focus: break through, or die.

With a sharp motion of my arm, I summon a brief swirl of black energy that crackles around my forearm. The nearest guard’s confidence falters—he obviously wasn’t expecting a demon. The second guard draws his sword and advances.

I flick my wrist, sending a pulse of force that knocks him off his feet, sliding him across the polished floor. The first guard shouts in alarm, and at once the courtyard comes alive with chaos. The other elves scramble, some raising crossbows, others rushing into the hallway, intent on subduing me.

Behind me, Calla and the slaves huddle, uncertain. I raise my voice, “Stay close to the wall. Move when I say.”

She nods, face tense with fear.

Two crossbow-wielding elves appear in the archway. I lunge forward, my steps leaving faint wisps of darkness in my wake. One fires, the bolt whizzing past my ear. The other tries to reload in time, but I’m on him before he can so much as level his aim. I smash the crossbow from his hands and send a knee into his gut, watching him crumple.

A third guard rushes me from the left. The clang of steel resonates when his sword glances off my shoulder armor—armor that remains invisible except for the black markings that shift across my skin. With a snarl, I twist away and slam my palm against his chest, releasing a burst of chilling energy that leaves him gasping for air. He collapses.

“Now!” I yell to Calla. “Go!”

Calla and the others sprint along the wall, heading for a side corridor that likely leads to the main gates. More guards converge from ahead, forming a blockade. I exhale a hiss between my teeth. I need a bigger distraction.

I press my hand against the closest marble pillar and channel a wave of darkness. Fine cracks appear in the stone, spiderwebbing outward with each beat of my heart. With a final push, the pillar snaps and topples, crashing into the courtyard. Dust plumes upward in a suffocating cloud, and the elves scatter, shouting.

That should buy us precious seconds. I race after Calla, leaping over fallen rubble and skirting unconscious guards. She’s halfway down the corridor, Silas clutching her hand. The other three slaves follow, terror fueling their speed.

We’re close to an immense set of iron doors barred from the inside. That must be the main gate. We slow to a stop, confronted by three heavily armored soldiers, each with halberds leveled at us. Their faces are set in grim determination.

One speaks. “You are trespassing in House Vaerathis, demon.” His voice trembles just enough for me to sense his uncertainty. “Surrender, or?—”

I don’t let him finish. My impatience flares, and a whip of black smoke coils around my arm. He lunges, trying to impale me, but I sidestep with inhuman speed. The weapon clangs off the stone floor. In a single fluid motion, I grasp the halberd shaft and jerk it free, ramming the butt into his gut. He staggers, gasping.

The second soldier slashes at me from behind, but I twist away, letting his swing pass harmlessly by. Then I slam my heel into his knee, sending him down hard. The third soldier braces, going for a powerful overhead strike. I narrow my eyes, flipping the halberd in my grip to parry.

The resounding clash reverberates through my arms. He’s strong, but I have centuries of pent-up power fueling me. I force him back, step by step. Finally, he falters, and I knock the weapon aside, delivering a punch to his jaw. He collapses, unconscious.

Calla rushes up, scanning the iron doors. There’s a thick bar across them, secured by reinforced locks. “It’s sealed,” she breathes. “We need a key.”

Or we force it open. I take a moment to sense the wards. There’s a slight magical barrier here, presumably to keep intruders out. But from inside, it’s weaker. I place both hands on the iron and let my power flow. Sparks of dark energy dance across the surface, reacting to some embedded spell. The door vibrates, metal protesting under my unnatural assault.

With a resounding groan, the bar snaps, and the doors swing outward, letting in a rush of icy air. Beyond them lies a stone courtyard leading to a massive outer gate. And beyond that, a glimpse of overcast sky. Freedom.

“Go!” I snap, glancing over my shoulder to ensure more guards aren’t upon us. Calla, Silas, and the three others dart forward. We emerge into the crisp morning, the smell of dew and ever-present gloom of Protheka’s sky confronting us. My entire body tenses, half expecting a volley of arrows or a troop of soldiers waiting.

But for the moment, it’s clear. The fortress’s outer gate is open, probably to allow merchant wagons or messengers. I sense a few guards stationed near the walls, but they haven’t yet realized the scale of the chaos. Not fully.

We dash across the courtyard, footsteps echoing on cobblestones. A startled watchman at the gate shouts something, but we don’t slow. He fumbles for a horn at his belt. I grimace, summoning one final burst of power. A coil of dark magic snaps through the air and knocks the horn from his hand. He yelps and backs away, not daring to engage me directly.

We slip through the gate, hearts pounding, out onto the winding road that leads away from House Vaerathis. The estate’s looming walls stretch behind us like the spines of a great beast. Even from here, I can hear shouts, the clang of alarms. They’ll send pursuers. But we’ve bought ourselves a head start.

Calla gasps, doubling over to catch her breath, tears of relief or shock trailing down her cheeks. Silas steadies her, wide-eyed. The other three slaves circle a few paces away, uncertain what to do next.

I look back at the fortress. A heavy sensation weighs in my gut. This was too easy—or perhaps just the beginning.

When I face Calla again, I see her lips parted, about to thank me, or maybe question me. But I speak first. “We’re not safe yet. There will be riders. They’ll chase us.”

She nods, voice shaky. “Then we run.”

I realize she expects me to lead. She knows nothing about traveling beyond these walls, nothing about the horrors lurking in Protheka. But she has no choice now—she’s cast her lot with a demon.

“We need shelter,” I say, scanning the horizon. Grey skies bruise the distance, promising a storm. A forest lies to the south, its edges faintly visible. I sense no immediate magic there. “This way.”

Together, we set off, ignoring the burning in our lungs and the fatigue in our limbs. The road winds ahead, and behind us, House Vaerathis recedes—a place of cruelty, old secrets, and a hatred that’s not quite done with me.

As we hurry onward, my mind churns with possibilities. I’ve reclaimed my freedom, yes, but I also carry the burden of the curse that tethered me to these elves in the first place. The question remains: how much time do we have before that ancient bond snaps tight once more? And what will I do when confronted with the one who cursed me?

For now, I ignore the ache in my chest. The future holds answers, but the present requires focus. Each step forward is a step away from that cursed mirror and the catacombs of House Vaerathis. Each heartbeat is a reminder that, despite centuries of near oblivion, I’m alive—and so is she.

Whatever fate awaits us, I can almost taste the tension in the wind: conflict, danger, and the relentless pull of vengeance. If I’m to walk the mortal realm again, I’ll do it on my own terms. And if the Vaerathis family dares to drag me back?

I let out a cold smile, lethal, curve across my lips.

They will regret ever binding me in the first place.