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DAEVA

I stand beneath the dripping canopy of black pines, Jenna’s weight slumped against my chest, and force one ragged breath after another. The rain has turned the forest floor to a swamp of rotted needles and slick mud, and each of my footfalls sinks deeper than I’d like. But no matter the exhaustion gnawing at me, I don’t relent. This mortal woman clings to life by a tenuous thread, and despite the dull ache that’s started to spread through my limbs, I bear her without complaint.

Calla, Silas, Ryn, and Cole trudge close behind, their hushed voices drowned out by the wind and patter of raindrops. In the shifting shadows, I detect their furtive glances, the way they look at me as if I am both their savior and a threat. Perhaps I am. My powers are not at full strength, yet I’ve displayed enough to unsettle them. I catch the occasional flicker in Calla’s gaze—equal parts dread and wonder. It almost makes me smile.

Almost. These emotions… it reminds me that I was once human, too.

I push aside a curtain of wet branches and step into a small clearing choked with waist-high ferns. The pungent smell of rain-soaked earth hits me. A massive pine trunk lies uprooted on one side, torn from the ground by some past storm. Beyond it, the terrain slopes downward into thicker darkness. We have walked for hours now, and the others are reaching their limits. Even Silas, whose spirit still burns bright, sways on his feet.

“We’ll pause,” I say over my shoulder, my voice low. “Just long enough to see to Jenna’s wound and to make certain no one is following us.”

I set Jenna down gently against the fallen trunk. She groans, forehead clammy, her face ashen. Calla kneels beside her at once, brow creased with worry, while Silas and the others collapse into the wet ferns.

In a single stride, I move a short distance away, scanning the perimeter. The forest drips and creaks, pockets of rain pooling in low places, forming murky puddles. I sense no immediate presence of dark elves, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there. My connection to my own powers has been tenuous since I woke in that cursed mirror, and my awareness isn’t as precise as I’d like. The bond I share—shared—with my ancient enemy remains a distant ache, a warning that I haven’t truly severed him from my life. He is out there, waiting.

My lip curls at the thought. For now, I have no intention of letting him recapture me.

Returning to the others, I find them in dismal spirits. Ryn hovers near Jenna, picking fretfully at dead pine needles, while Cole and Silas argue over which direction we should travel once dawn breaks. Rain dribbles down Calla’s temple, but she seems too focused on Jenna’s wound to notice the cold.

I crouch beside Calla, letting the dampness soak through the knees of my trousers. My eyes flick to Jenna’s shoulder. The dark patch of blood stands out against the improvised frost scar I created earlier—a temporary closure that may not hold through infection and fever.

“Her breathing is shallow,” Calla says, voice tight with worry. “She’s burning up.”

“We need real healing,” Cole says through chattering teeth. “Isn’t there some…some herb or something you can do?” He looks at me with a curious mixture of hope and distrust.

I close my eyes, searching my memory for scraps of mortal life. Once, I knew something about healing herbs—feverfew, meadowsweet, blackroot. But those memories are centuries old, from a time when I was still human. Now they’re dim shadows in the recesses of my mind.

“There may be a plant called silverleaf,” I say after a moment, voice low. “If it grows here, its leaves can be brewed to fight infection. I’m…not certain I’d recognize it immediately.”

Calla’s gaze locks on me. Something in her eyes suggests she hears the hesitance in my tone. I look away, uneasy. I hate the weakness that creeps in when I remember the past. But I allow the vulnerability—briefly—because the alternative is letting Jenna die.

Silas, overhearing, breaks in. “I’ve seen silverleaf in the undergroves near Kantor. Maybe it grows this far south, too. Should I go look?”

The hair on my nape prickles. “Not alone,” I warn. “This forest is uncharted territory for you, and the elves may have set trackers on our trail. I’ll go.”

Silas looks torn between caution and the desire to help. He nods reluctantly. “All right. But be careful.”

I rise, ignoring the throbbing heaviness in my own limbs. The cold presses in, and I sense the edges of a deeper fatigue that’s plagued me since the catacombs. I force it aside. There is no alternative. Jenna will die soon if we do nothing.

“I’ll be back quickly,” I say. “Stay quiet. If you sense anyone approaching, leave.”

Calla’s hand reaches out, brushing my forearm. The contact is fleeting but surprising—a gentle anchor in the darkness. I meet her gaze. A silent question swirls in her eyes: Are you all right? She doesn’t voice it. I give her a brief nod, then slip away into the damp gloom.

The forest presses close as I move, each step carefully placed so I don’t slip on slick pine needles. My senses scour the surrounding night for any sign of movement. The wind shifts, carrying a faint hint of something decaying—whether it’s old vegetation or an animal carcass, I can’t tell. Rain continues its relentless assault, blurring the world into shifting silhouettes.

I skirt around a thick cluster of ferns, scanning the forest floor by the thin moonlight that occasionally filters through a break in the storm clouds. I recall silverleaf thrives in damp, shadowy glens. My memory is hazy; I can’t be sure I’ll recognize it, but the name alone conjures an image: slender leaves with a pale underside that shimmers faintly under the moon.

A scrape of boots on stone. Instantly, I freeze, adrenaline spiking. Several paces to my left, behind a curtain of hanging moss, I catch the faint outline of a figure. Light flickers, possibly a lantern or glowstone. Elves.

I inhale quietly, pressing against the moss-draped trunk of a fallen cedar. Heartbeats pass, slow and steady. There must be two, maybe three elves. Their voices carry in the hush:

“—they came through here, I’m certain,” one says in clipped Elvish.

Another answers, “We’ll comb the area to the south. If the hound found them once, it can do so again—assuming it’s not dead. Keep your eyes peeled.”

I grit my teeth. The memory of that demon hound’s rancid breath still lingers in my mind. I dealt it a harsh blow; whether it lives or not, I can’t say, but it hasn’t reappeared yet. If these elves have another one…

Before I can finish the thought, the nearest elf steps closer, torchlight washing over the rough bark. I see a glint of steel and the polished red insignia on his cloak. They’re from Vaerathis, all right.

I consider ambushing them. My powers could smother them before they call for help—maybe. But the risk is steep. If even one escapes, it’ll bring a flood of reinforcements down on us. And if I’m forced to unleash too much magic, I might lose control in my current weakened state. The last time I truly unleashed my fury, entire corridors burned and twisted, and I can’t afford that chaos with mortals so close by.

Carefully, I begin to inch backward, silent as the grave. The light shifts again, and the elves continue forward, scanning the undergrowth in the opposite direction. Once their voices fade, I slip away, heading deeper into a slope thick with rotting logs.

My chest tightens. Focus on the silverleaf.

It takes me several more minutes—ducking beneath low branches, sliding down a muddy ravine, and nearly tumbling into a slick pool of stagnant water—before I find what might be the plant in question. Beneath a tangle of brambles, small leaves glimmer faintly in the murky gloom. I kneel, brushing aside the thorns. The underside of each leaf catches the dim moonlight with a soft gleam, and a faint, fresh scent teases my nostrils.

Silverleaf. Relief floods through me. I tear off several sprigs, careful to keep the roots if possible. The pungent scent intensifies, stinging my sinuses. It’s an old memory come to life: Yes, this is it.

Cautiously, I climb back up the ravine, searching for signs of the elves. My senses remain on high alert, but the night is still except for the rainfall. Eventually, I retrace my route to the clearing—no sign of pursuit. When I slip through the pines, I find Silas pacing in agitation while Cole stands watch, squinting into the dark. They both sag with relief when they see me.

“I was worried,” Silas admits, stepping aside so I can pass.

I nod curtly and hurry to Jenna’s side. She’s half-conscious, murmuring feverish words. Calla props her up, lips pressed tight. Ryn hovers, face grim.

“I found it,” I say, holding out the silverleaf. “We need to steep it. Heat would be ideal, but building a fire is risky.”

Calla swallows, pushing her damp hair off her forehead. “Let me see if we can gather enough dry tinder for a small flame. If we do it under the pine trunk, maybe it won’t be visible.”

Silas and Ryn exchange anxious looks. Cole steps forward. “I’ll help. Quietly.”

Within minutes, they scrounge some half-dry kindling from beneath logs, pine boughs, even scraps of cloth. I keep watch while Calla works with Silas to spark a tiny flame using friction and a bit of flint. The hiss of ignition is barely audible over the rain, but the small circle of firelight seems glaringly bright in this gloom.

Calla cups her hands around the flame, sheltering it from the drizzle. Once it steadies, I kneel, shredding the silverleaf into a piece of cloth we can dunk in water. Ryn finds an old tin bowl in his bag—pilfered from the fortress, no doubt—and we fill it with water from the puddles that have collected in the trunk’s hollow. The water is murky, but we have little choice.

With delicate care, Calla holds the bowl over the small flames, ignoring how the steam scalds her hands. I deposit the shredded leaves into the warming water, stirring them with a twig until the liquid turns a pale green. A sharp, herbal aroma wafts upward.

Jenna stirs again, wincing. “Where…?” she croaks.

“Easy,” Calla murmurs, blowing on the brew to cool it. “Just sip.”

I lift Jenna’s head, pressing the bowl to her lips. She sips, face scrunching at the bitter taste. Some dribbles down her chin, but she manages a few swallows. Then she falls back into semi-consciousness, exhaustion claiming her. We have no guarantee this will save her, but at least we’ve done all we can.

Silas extinguishes the fire, scattering the embers into the soaked soil. Darkness settles back around us like a cloak. The hush that follows leaves us with nothing but the drum of raindrops.

Time slips away. At some point, the rain eases to a drizzle, and a thin sliver of moonlight pierces the sky. Everyone except me is half-dozing in the aftermath of tension and fatigue. Even Calla rests her head against a root, eyes closed. I stand at the clearing, arms folded, scanning the forest. My body aches in ways it never did before captivity. The toll of centuries inside that mirror has weakened me, and I despise the feeling.

Footsteps approach behind me, so light I almost miss them. But I turn to see Calla, her expression softer than usual, the bruise on her temple stark in the moonlight.

“You should sleep,” I say quietly, though the concern in my tone surprises even me.

She shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest. “I can’t. Every time I try, I keep imagining the elves storming in. Or I see Jenna dying.” She takes a measured breath. “Thank you for finding the silverleaf.”

I nod. “Better than letting her bleed to death.”

Her gaze drifts to the pines overhead. “Still. You didn’t have to risk yourself wandering off. Silas volunteered…”

“I’m more capable of evading elves,” I reply, letting the words hang. A faint tension lingers between us, the awareness that we rely on each other for survival, yet neither truly knows the other’s motives.

Calla shifts on her feet, glancing sidelong at me. “Are you…” She hesitates. “Are you holding up? You fought that hound, used all those abilities, then ran off into the woods.”

Her concern is disarming, given the circumstances. I tilt my head, meeting her gaze. “I’ve survived worse.”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips, though sadness lingers in her eyes. “I’m beginning to think you might’ve survived everything.”

I say nothing, letting the words settle. The truth is, I survived too long. I can’t speak of that yet—how the centuries of captivity eroded my sense of self, how my hatred for House Vaerathis once fueled me until hatred was all I knew. And now, that singular purpose has fractured. Because of her. Because I find myself caring whether she lives or dies.

A breeze stirs her damp hair, and my eyes snag on the line of her jaw, the curve of her lips. I sense her heartbeat quicken. She draws a breath, and in the dark, we stand closer than we should, tension coiling like a living thing between us.

It’d be easy to forget the danger—just for a moment—and indulge in the warmth of her presence. But a lifetime of caution keeps me from stepping forward. Instead, I clear my throat and look away. She does the same, wrapping her arms around herself.

I shift, peering into the forest’s distant shadows. “We should head south at first light, as planned. There’s a chance to find more resources—maybe even a remote settlement that tolerates humans.”

“Humans,” she repeats with a hollow laugh. “You make it sound like you’re not one.”

I almost flinch. “I’m not.” The words slip out like a confession. “I don’t look like one. What makes you think I am? I’m a demon.”

She studies me, eyes reflecting moonlight. “I don’t understand how that happened… or why. But I see how you carry that pain.” Her hand lifts, as if to reach for my forearm again, but she stops short. “I won’t pry, if you don’t want me to.”

A surge of conflicting emotions hits me. I want to confide in her—tell her how Varzun Vaerathis tried to fuse his essence with mine in a corrupted ritual, how that left me stranded between mortality and the demonic. But revealing too much puts her in greater danger. The elf that cursed me is still out there, waiting to reclaim what he believes is his. For centuries, he was my nightmare. Now, possibly, I am his.

Instead, I murmur, “You deserve answers. Not now. But soon.”

She exhales, nodding. “All right.” The hush returns, broken only by an owl’s distant call.

When she finally drifts back to the makeshift camp, lying down near Jenna, I remain watchful. My chest tightens with strange tension, an unfamiliar ache that isn’t physical wounds. No attachments , I used to tell myself. Nothing but revenge. Now that clarity is muddied by her presence, by the spark in her gaze. By the way my name—Daeva—sounds on her lips.

Dawn comes in a dreary haze, gray light dripping through the pines. Silas and Cole rustle awake, their limbs stiff and sore, while Ryn checks Jenna’s fever. She’s cooler than before, though still weak and delirious.

Calla passes the leftover silverleaf brew to Jenna in small sips. Jenna accepts, then slumps back, eyes half-lidded. It’s not a cure, but it’s hope.

We set off southward again, treading through the rain-soaked forest. The morning air hangs heavy, the hush broken only by the squelch of our footsteps and the occasional cough from Jenna. I carry her once more—her weight even lighter than before, frighteningly so.

Cole rummages through the underbrush, collecting any mushrooms or wild berries he finds. We test them carefully, mindful not to poison ourselves. The meager morsels only stave off hunger pangs. Our progress is slow, each mile a battle against soggy ground and battered bodies.

At midday—if one can call this dim wash of light “day”—the terrain changes. Tall pines give way to looming firs and jagged boulders. Moss-draped stones rise like ancient sentinels, their faces carved by centuries of wind and rain. The path becomes a narrow defile between rocky outcroppings, and I pause, scanning for ambush.

The air here is stale, heavy with the scent of damp earth. A line of scraggly shrubs grows near the cliff walls. I’m about to urge the others onward when a shrill cry echoes behind us—too close for comfort. Something in that cry speaks of malice, not a mere animal’s call.

“Get behind the rocks,” I bark, voice tight.

Silas and Cole scramble to the left. Ryn tries to lead Calla around a boulder on the right, but the ground crumbles, sending a small landslide of loose gravel tumbling. Jenna moans in my arms. We press ourselves against the stone face, hearts pounding.

A thunder of hooves resonates, but not the refined canter of elven horses. This is heavier, more uneven. My instincts scream. Orcs? Another kind of monster?

A moment later, three hulking shapes clatter into view atop rangy, pale-furred beasts. They skid to a halt on the wet ground. Crude iron armor glints dully. My eyes narrow. Orc raiders. They roam these forests in roving warbands, scavenging and killing wherever they see advantage.

One orc leans forward, scanning the defile. A scar runs across his broad, greenish jaw, and his face contorts in suspicion. He hefts a wickedly spiked mace, sniffing the air.

Next to me, Calla’s expression betrays alarm. She and Ryn are pinned behind a small boulder. Silas and Cole are across from us, flattening themselves against the rock. I sense them trembling. Orcs are rarely friendly to humans; slaves hold no value to them except for trade or cruelty.

Quietly, I set Jenna down behind me, leaning her against the stone. Her eyelids flutter, but she’s too weak to protest. My powers stir, but exhaustion weighs heavily on me. If I fight, I must do so swiftly.

The orc with the mace barks something in a guttural tongue. The second orc dismounts, brandishing a spear. The third wields a crossbow of dwarven make—likely looted from a caravan. They’re methodical, scanning for ambush. If they spot us, they’ll attack, no question.

I take a careful step out, meeting the orc’s gaze. His eyes narrow in surprise at the sight of me—white-haired, black-marked. He snorts, raising his weapon. “Demon?” he growls in broken Common. “You look puny.”

My lips curl into a mirthless smile. “I’m more than enough for you.”

The orc glances around, suspicious of a trap. Behind me, I hear Silas shift, but I gesture sharply for him to stay hidden. The fewer of us they see, the less they’ll realize we have wounded.

The orc sneers, revealing jagged tusks. “What you want here?”

I sense an opportunity. Orcs don’t have the same alliances or enmities as elves, but they respect strength. “Just passing. We have no quarrel unless you make one,” I say calmly.

He snorts again. The second orc creeps closer, spear lowered. “We want toll,” he snarls. “What you pay us to pass?”

A toll for crossing their territory. Typical. The question is: do they want gold? Weapons? Or blood? We have neither coin nor a willingness to waste time.

I spread my hands, letting black flickers of power dance along my fingertips in a show of intimidation. “I have no gold. But I could give you something else.”

His grin sours, and I see greed flash in his eyes. “We no want worthless humans, if that’s what you offer,” he says, spitting at the ground. “You have weapons? Supplies?”

“We have little,” I admit. “Still, it might be enough.”

Behind me, I hear a muffled protest—Calla or Silas, perhaps. They realize we can’t spare anything. The orc with the crossbow shifts in his saddle, scanning the rocks. I sense the tension building. One wrong word, and they’ll attack.

I inch forward, letting them see the swirling markings on my arms. The orcs whisper among themselves, uncertain. Orcs are savage, but they aren’t fools. They recognize something unnatural when they see it.

Before I can speak again, the orc with the crossbow lifts it, pointing the weapon straight at my chest. My magic crackles, and in a swift motion, I fling a coil of black energy at him, but the angle is awkward. The coil slams into his mount instead. The beast shrieks, toppling sideways. The orc tumbles to the ground, letting off a wild bolt that ricochets off the stone.

The first orc roars, spurring his creature forward and swinging the mace at my head. I duck, slamming my palm against the beast’s flank. A jolt of dark energy ripples through it. The mount staggers, twisting sideways as the orc struggles to keep control.

Then the second orc lunges with his spear, nearly skewering me. I dodge, and the spearpoint scrapes across my upper arm, pain flaring. My blood, dark in the half-light, stains my torn sleeve. I grit my teeth, letting the adrenaline sharpen my focus.

Across the defile, Ryn emerges, brandishing a large rock in both hands. He heaves it at the spear-wielding orc’s back. It’s an act of desperation, but it makes enough noise to distract the orc. The orc twists around with a snarl, and that gives me a precious second. I drive my elbow into his ribs, channeling a pulse of freezing energy. Frost creeps over the plates of his armor, biting into skin. He howls, backing off.

The crossbow orc tries to stand, dazed from the fall. Silas darts out, tackling him around the knees. They crash to the mud, wrestling. The crossbow is knocked loose, but the orc is stronger. He yanks Silas by the hair, about to deliver a crushing blow.

Calla steps in with a broken branch, smashing it against the orc’s temple. The orc lurches, releasing Silas. I seize the moment—launching a tendril of darkness that snakes around the orc’s neck. He chokes, eyes bulging, and collapses in the mud.

The last orc, the one with the mace, rears his mount, glaring at me with open fury. “You pay in blood, demon!” He spurs the beast, charging forward. I brace, ignoring the pain in my arm. My power surges, swirling around me in a haze of black motes.

To my shock, the beast leaps the boulder behind me, heading straight for the cluster of mortals. Fear knifes through me. Jenna is there, helpless. Without hesitation, I summon a violent rush of energy. It crackles across the rocky ground, forming a barrier of sizzling black.

The orc’s mount hits that wall mid-leap. A thunderous impact. The mount squeals, flipping over the barrier. The orc is flung headlong, crashing into the stone with bone-snapping force. For a moment, he twitches—then goes limp.

Heart pounding, I glance at Calla and Silas. They’re splattered with mud, faces pale but alive. Ryn stands rigid, chest heaving, while Cole kneels by Jenna, shielding her. She’s still conscious enough to look terrified.

I let the barrier fade, staggering slightly. My entire body trembles with fatigue and pain. The slash on my arm burns, and the energy I expelled leaves me dizzy. But we’ve survived. That’s all that matters.

In the aftermath, the orcs lie scattered. One is definitely dead, the others unconscious or too broken to fight. Silas recovers the crossbow with shaky hands, checking to see if it’s still usable. Ryn rubs the bruise on his shoulder, and Cole slumps in relief.

Calla’s eyes find me in the chaos. She steps over a broken piece of armor, lips parted. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” I say through gritted teeth, though each breath stings.

She frowns, crossing to me quickly. Her hands hover near the wound, uncertain. I nod, allowing her to examine it. She peels back the torn fabric, wincing at the gash. “We have some leftover silverleaf,” she murmurs, “but we can’t keep using it on every cut.”

I clench my jaw. “Just wrap it. We can’t linger here.”

Without argument, she tears a strip from the hem of her tunic and binds my arm with surprising gentleness, her hands quick and deft. My breath hitches at her touch, unaccountably distracting in the midst of the carnage. Silas watches with worried eyes, but says nothing.

Once she’s done, I turn to the group. “We have orc mounts now, if any can still be ridden.” My voice is sharp from pain, but the practicality stands. “We need to leave before the rest of their warband arrives.”

Cole steps gingerly around the fallen beasts. One is clearly dead, the other flanks are twitching. Only the crossbow orc’s mount remains, battered but alive. It bares yellowed teeth when Cole approaches, snorting in alarm.

“Not sure it’ll let us ride,” Cole says. “These beasts aren’t known to be gentle.”

I eye the creature, exhaling. In my better days, I might have coerced it with demonic will, but I’m drained. “Then we’ll carry on as we are.”

We scavenge anything useful from the orcs—some dried meat, a half-full canteen of questionable water, a few strips of battered cloth that might serve as bandages. It’s a grim but necessary task. While Silas and Cole rummage, Ryn lifts Jenna again, though he staggers under her weight.

“No,” I say, stepping in. “I’ll carry her.”

He eyes my bandaged arm. “You’re already injured.”

“I’m stronger than you. Don’t argue.”

He relents, letting me cradle Jenna carefully. She breathes in shallow gasps. Calla and Silas take point, crossbow in hand, while Cole and Ryn cover our flank. I keep myself ready for another surge of aggression—from elves, orcs, or anything else in this cursed forest.

As we start forward, Calla falls into step beside me, her cheeks flushed from exertion or lingering adrenaline. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice nearly lost in the wind.

“For what?” I murmur, though my heart stirs.

“For… protecting us again. You could’ve left when you saw those orcs, but you stayed.”

I don’t reply at first, focusing on the path. Then I glance down, letting our gazes meet. “I stay because I choose to.” The honest confession feels heavier than any blow.

She draws a breath, a flicker of warmth crossing her features. Despite the freezing air and the tang of blood around us, that moment resonates like an ember in the dark. Maybe we’re both lost souls, haunted by House Vaerathis in different ways. Yet here we are, forging a path of mud and desperation in a hostile land.

I shift Jenna’s weight in my arms and push onward, ignoring the sting in my own wound. The sky rumbles again—another storm brewing, or perhaps the remnants of the last. I sense no respite in this place. Our only certainty is that we have to keep moving, keep surviving. House Vaerathis hunts us. Orc warbands prowl these forests. And I harbor secrets that might tear us apart if revealed too soon.

But for now, I walk beside Calla, each step a defiance of the fate that once bound me. The forest swallows us in its misty hush, and I vow, in the silent depths of my mind, that I won’t stop until we find sanctuary—or until the last of my cursed power burns out.