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5

CALLA

I keep my hand pressed firmly to my aching side, each ragged breath burning my lungs in the lingering aftermath of our clash with the orcs. The metallic scent of blood—some ours, some theirs—still coats the back of my tongue, and the forest around us feels unusually silent, as if nature itself holds its breath in the wake of violence. Daeva leads us at an even pace, though his stride seems more subdued than before. The makeshift bandage on his arm is stained a dark crimson in places, but he doesn’t complain.

The ground slopes downward, and I notice how the trees thin out, letting more patches of tired sunlight spill onto the pine-needle floor. Ryn limps at the rear, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder. Each time he does, my heart climbs into my throat, expecting to see some new horror. But so far, the only thing chasing us is the gloom of our own fatigue.

Beside me, Silas remains vigilant, crossbow clutched awkwardly in his hands. He’s never fired one before, but necessity and desperation have a way of turning novices into survivors. Cole helps him check the mechanism, occasionally casting worried glances at Jenna, who’s still cradled in Daeva’s arms. She’s conscious but listless, eyes half-lidded from fever and exhaustion.

It feels like days since we broke free from House Vaerathis, though in reality, it’s probably just a handful of them—each day crammed with more brushes with death than I care to tally. Between the elves, the demon hound, and now orcs, we’ve tested our luck enough. We desperately need a safe place to rest, to let Jenna heal, to let us all catch our breath without the threat of another ambush.

A faint sound catches my attention: the soft rush of water. It weaves through the silence of the forest, barely noticeable over the rasp of our footsteps and labored breathing. But it’s there—steady, promising. Water means we can clean wounds, wash away the dirt and blood, maybe even scavenge fish if we’re lucky.

“We’re close to a stream,” I murmur, glancing at Daeva’s profile. His silver-blue eyes flick toward me.

He nods, shifting Jenna’s weight in his arms. “Yes,” he says, voice subdued. “Let’s find it.”

The faint track beneath our feet merges into a narrower path, and the trees open into a small clearing where the sun filters in golden rays. Beyond that, I glimpse the gentle curve of a riverbank—rocks and pebbles worn smooth by flowing water. The river itself isn’t broad—perhaps fifteen strides across—but it looks clear and relatively calm. Relief bubbles up in my chest.

Silas exhales. “Thank the gods,” he mutters, quickening his pace. “If it’s safe enough to linger…”

Daeva lowers Jenna carefully against a mossy log at the boundary of the clearing. She stifles a groan, eyelids fluttering at the sudden change in position. Ryn and Cole rush to her side, checking her bandages. Her fever has subsided a bit, but she’s still so pale it makes my heart clench.

I step closer to the water’s edge. The river flows with a low, melodic whisper, carrying leaves and small twigs downstream. The bank is framed by smooth stones, some large enough to form a natural seating area or serve as a makeshift washing spot. If we’re going to make camp, this seems as good a place as any.

Daeva joins me, scanning the surroundings. He’s quiet, though his gaze roams methodically—he’s not just admiring the view. He’s checking for threats. It’s easy to forget how dangerous this land is until you see that caution etched in his features again.

“Should we risk a fire?” Cole calls from behind, still kneeling next to Jenna.

I look at Daeva, hoping for guidance. He sets his jaw, considering. “A small one,” he says. “We need warm water to clean her wound, and possibly to cook if we catch anything. Keep it low and smoky, easy to disguise.”

Ryn sets about gathering fallen branches while Silas rummages for kindling. Cole helps support Jenna to keep her from sinking into the damp ground. I join them for a moment, pressing the back of my hand to Jenna’s forehead. She feels a little cooler than yesterday—maybe the silverleaf is finally taking effect.

She opens her eyes, pupils still clouded by pain. “Calla,” she whispers, breath hitching. “Thanks…for not leaving me behind.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Don’t even say that. We’re not abandoning anyone.”

She gives a weak smile, then drifts back into semi-rest.

We work quickly. In under an hour, a small camp emerges from the wilderness. Ryn and Cole place branches in a rough lean-to shape, using the thick trunks to shelter us from prying eyes. Silas manages to coax a fire from damp kindling, though he curses under his breath whenever the wind threatens to snuff it out. Eventually, a tiny flame takes hold, sending slender threads of smoke into the evening sky.

Daeva remains on the perimeter, pacing like a sentinel. He steps lightly around the clearing’s edge, occasionally pausing to listen. I watch him from the corner of my eye as I kneel by the river, rinsing scraps of cloth that might serve as bandages. Steam from the boiled water rises behind me, swirling in the crisp air.

A pang of guilt nags at me for staring so openly, but I can’t help it. There’s a lethal grace in the way he carries himself, as though ready for battle at any moment. And then there’s that face—too handsome for any demon I’ve heard about in the old stories. The black markings curling across his collarbones and arms only heighten that uncanny beauty, a reminder that he’s not human anymore. But he was once, apparently. Perhaps that’s why he’s easier to talk to than I’d expect.

By the time twilight settles over the forest, we’ve eaten a meager meal of roots and wild mushrooms. No sign of fish or game. Still, we’re better off than we were in the fortress. I force myself to appreciate these small mercies.

Jenna dozes fitfully near the fire. Silas, Ryn, and Cole fall into an exhausted hush, occasionally trading quiet remarks about watch duty. They talk in subdued voices about rotating through the night. I volunteer for a shift, but Silas insists I rest first.

I nod absently, swirling a rag in the water to rinse it. My muscles ache with every movement, and the grime clinging to me makes my skin crawl. The orchard of bruises along my arms, the dried mud on my legs—I yearn for even a semblance of cleanliness.

A thought takes hold: the river is right here, and the night is dark enough that no one should notice if I slip away. My clothes are damp with sweat and dirt, and if I keep them on much longer, I’ll never feel truly clean.

I straighten, scanning the campsite. Silas and Ryn speak by the lean-to, voices low. Cole is half asleep, propped against a tree trunk. Daeva stands a little ways off, back turned, gazing out into the moonlit darkness as if challenging it. No one seems to be paying attention to me.

Quietly, I gather a scrap of cloth that can serve as a makeshift towel. My heartbeat picks up for reasons I can’t entirely name—maybe fear of discovery, or maybe the idea of letting my guard down in a forest teeming with danger. But the craving to wash away this filth outweighs caution tonight.

I pad softly along the bank, heading upstream where the trees form a more private alcove. The moon filters through the branches, painting everything in silver. The water glistens, inviting. I do a quick, careful sweep of the area for any sign of watchers—no glowing eyes, no silhouettes lurking among the trunks.

Satisfied, I set the cloth on a stone and begin stripping off my tattered clothes. The night air caresses my skin, raising goosebumps, but I welcome the coolness. My body is a canvas of scars and bruises, each telling a story I’d rather forget. Still, I feel a small surge of relief at simply being uncovered, free from those rags that marked me as a slave.

I ease into the water. It’s cold enough to make me gasp, but I bite back any sound, lowering myself inch by inch until I’m submerged up to my collarbones. The current tugs gently at my ankles, as if urging me to drift away from the shore. For a moment, I let myself float, exhaling slowly. The silence wraps around me, and I feel almost at peace.

I shut my eyes, letting the current swirl around my legs, washing away dirt and dried blood. My heart still thrums from the knowledge that we’re not safe, but for these few minutes, I try to pretend I’m just a woman bathing in a moonlit river, not an escaped slave or a fugitive from House Vaerathis.

When I open my eyes again, I notice a faint movement near the bank—almost imperceptible, but enough to send a surge of panic through me. I freeze, half under the water, scanning the gloom. My breath catches in my throat.

Then I see him, Daeva, standing at the river’s edge, clearly as startled as I am. Moonlight dances over his pale hair, making it gleam like silver thread. His eyes lock on mine, widen for the briefest moment, and then flick down to the bare slope of my shoulders.

I stifle a gasp, sliding deeper into the water until only my head is above the surface, heart pounding so loudly I’m sure he hears it. Mortification prickles through me, but also a different sensation—something that warms my cheeks despite the cold.

“S-sorry,” he says, voice quiet, immediately turning away as if to grant me privacy. “I heard movement. I thought?—”

“It’s fine,” I manage, though my voice comes out strangled. The water laps at my chin, and I curl my arms around myself. “I was just… bathing.”

He stands with his back turned, tension visible in the set of his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Heat flutters low in my belly. Intrude or not, he’s already seen more of me than any man ever has. My entire body hums with conflicting emotions. A small part of me has the urge to tell him to leave immediately, while another part wants to… I don’t know. Linger?

“It’s okay,” I force out, swallowing hard. “You can… just stay there.”

He hesitates. Then, very slowly, he angles his head, giving me a sliver of his profile. He’s definitely trying not to look directly at me. “There could be danger,” he murmurs. “I can keep watch.”

I should be annoyed at how easily he presumes a role of protector, but I can’t ignore the relief. If a stray elf or orc stumbled upon me like this, I’d be at a severe disadvantage. “Thank you,” I say, voice soft.

Silence falls, thick with tension. I half expect him to stride away, but he remains. The barest turn of his head suggests he’s glancing over his shoulder. My cheeks burn. The water’s cold, but I feel uncomfortably warm.

Summoning a bit of courage, I clear my throat. “I… I didn’t realize you’d follow me.”

“I didn’t follow you,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t catch it. “I was circling the campsite. I saw someone near the water. Thought it was a threat.”

Embarrassment flickers at the idea that I was so careless. “Of course. I—I appreciate you checking.”

He finally shifts enough to look me in the eyes again—just the faintest glimpse over his shoulder. His gaze, even in the shadows, crackles with something I can’t name. My heart lurches. Does he still function like a human man? The question leaps into my mind unbidden, set off by the hungry spark in those silver-blue irises.

I’ve never met a demon like him. Everything about him contradicts the monstrous stories I’ve heard: he’s too refined, too… heartbreakingly human in some of his mannerisms. And yet, every swirl of black marking on his skin reminds me of how far from human he’s become.

I sink deeper, letting the current tug at my limbs. My voice is unsteady, but I force the question, “Does it…does it bother you that you were once human?”

He stands silent for a heartbeat. Then he turns fully, though his gaze remains pinned to a point above my head—scrupulously avoiding my submerged body. “I don’t know if ‘bother’ is the right word,” he admits at last. “It’s more… it’s a wound that never heals. A reminder that I lost what I once was.”

His words strike me with unexpected force. I want to say something comforting, but everything that comes to mind feels inadequate. My fingers tighten on my upper arms underwater, steadying myself. “You said you’re… not at full strength. Is that… is that because of me freeing you too soon?”

A grim, humorless laugh escapes him. “Hardly. If anything, you spared me. My captivity in the mirror—some of my powers atrophied. Others are… twisted.” He exhales. “But it has nothing to do with you.”

I nod, water rippling around me. Hesitating, I venture, “I’ve never seen a demon with a conscience.”

His gaze flicks down, meeting mine. The corner of his mouth lifts in a faint, sad smile. “A conscience?”

“You helped us, more times than you had to,” I say, swallowing. “You saved me from the catacombs, from the elves, from orcs. You carry Jenna when she’s hurt. That’s… more than just a sense of debt, isn’t it?”

His jaw flexes. In the silence, the river’s lullaby fills the gap. Finally, he murmurs, “I was human. And part of me never forgot what it meant to feel… empathy.”

Warmth twists in my chest. The tension in the air seems to pulse with each breath I take. He’s so close—just a few strides away. Moonlight outlines the sharp cut of his jaw, the proud line of his shoulders. Beneath that otherworldly aura, there’s something raw, something that resonates with my own struggles.

A droplet of water trickles down my temple. I realize with a flush that I’m nearly numb from the cold, yet reluctant to leave. “I—I should probably get out,” I say, trying to sound brisk, though my voice wobbles.

He takes half a step back as if to give me space. “I’ll turn around.”

“Thank you,” I mumble.

He pivots, posture rigid. I push through the water to the bank, glancing nervously at the darkness beyond him. No lurking shadows. Quickly, I slip onto the wet stones, snatching my cloth and pressing it to my chest. My entire body trembles from cold and adrenaline. I wring out my hair, biting back a shiver.

Daeva’s silhouette remains politely turned. I feel a strange pang—something akin to disappointment, but I brush it aside. Wrapping the scrap of cloth around my torso, I rummage for my clothes. They’re caked in grime, hardly suitable for wearing after a bath. But it’s all I have.

When I’m decently covered—if damp rags can be called decent—I stand. “I’m… dressed now,” I say softly.

He turns, eyes flicking to my still-bare legs, then back to my face. His expression is guarded, but I catch a trace of warmth in his gaze that sends a shiver down my spine—not from cold this time.

“We should go back,” he says, voice low. “The others will worry.”

I nod, hugging my arms around myself. Together, we walk the short path through the pines. He slows his stride to match mine, as if sensing how chilled and shaky I am. For once, I don’t feel the bramble of distrust that usually knots my nerves around him. Instead, there’s a shared quiet, an understanding.

We reach the edge of camp. The fire is down to embers, a dull glow illuminating silhouettes. Silas is on his feet, crossbow in hand, scanning the darkness. The moment he spots me, relief crosses his face, followed by an uneasy frown when he notices Daeva at my side.

“You were gone a while,” Silas says, tone guarded.

I force a small smile. “I just needed to wash off.”

He glances between us, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s putting two and two together. “Sure,” he mutters. Then, in a lower voice, “Next time you tell me you’re going off alone, I’m coming with you.”

I bristle, though part of me understands his overprotectiveness. “Silas, I wasn’t far. And?—”

He shoots another glare at Daeva, who returns a calm, unblinking stare. “You alright?” Silas asks me.

“Yes.” My cheeks flush. “I’m fine. I promise. Let’s not wake the others.”

Behind Silas, Cole dozes fitfully against the trunk of a pine, while Ryn sits near Jenna, adjusting her blanket. From the looks of it, no one else seems aware of our little nighttime interlude. My stomach flips at the memory of Daeva’s gaze, how he struggled not to look at me yet couldn’t fully turn away.

Silas lowers the crossbow, tension still radiating off him. I sense he wants to demand more details, but out of respect for me or fear of picking a fight with Daeva, he stays quiet. Instead, he exhales, gesturing at a spot near the lean-to. “Try to get some sleep, Calla. We’ll keep watch.”

My shoulders sag with gratitude and a twinge of guilt. “Thank you.”

I move to the low space under the branches, wringing the damp ends of my hair. Daeva lingers near the edge of camp. Before I duck under the makeshift cover, I glance over at him. He meets my eyes for a moment—a silent exchange that makes my heart trip—and then he resumes his patrol.

I settle onto a patch of soft moss, pulling my tattered cloak around me for warmth. The silence presses in, interrupted only by the faint crackle of dying embers and the whisper of the river behind us. Exhaustion weighs on my eyelids, but my mind churns with too many thoughts: the memory of being caught naked in the river, the haunting sadness in Daeva’s voice when he talked about losing his humanity, the flicker of unmistakable desire I saw in his eyes.

Slowly, I drift into an uneasy doze. My dreams swirl with half-formed images of House Vaerathis, echoing corridors, and mirrors dripping black ink. Then I see Daeva, ghostlike in the catacombs, his face wreathed in shadows, reaching out a hand to me. I wake with a start, my pulse hammering.

It’s still night—or perhaps early morning. The moon has shifted, bathing the camp in a pale glow. Silas is on watch, arms folded, gaze trained on the horizon. I rub the sleep from my eyes, pushing myself up.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Silas murmurs, noticing my movement.

I shrug. “Nightmares, I guess.”

He nods in sympathy, then lowers his voice. “That demon… Daeva,” he corrects, as if the name tastes strange on his tongue, “he’s not normal, is he?”

“None of this is normal,” I reply with a weary sigh.

Silas shifts, conflict evident in his eyes. “I see how you look at him, Calla. Like you’re… curious. Or something else.”

My face heats. “He’s saved our lives. Of course I’m curious about who or what he is.”

Silas gives me a knowing look, but says nothing further. He simply rests a hand on me. “Just be careful.”

I’m too tired to protest, and maybe a little grateful for his concern. “I will,” I murmur, forcing a small smile.

I lie back down, letting my thoughts drift. The evening’s awkwardness glows in my mind like a half-buried ember, both embarrassing and oddly thrilling. I’ve never had time or reason to think about romance or desire, not in the life House Vaerathis forced on me. Now I’m not sure what to do with the possibility of either.

Daeva’s image flickers in my mind: those swirling black markings, that unwavering gaze, the gentle way he carried Jenna as if she weighed nothing. The memory of the river laps at my consciousness, tangling with the memory of his breath catching when he realized how exposed I was. So he does notice me… but do I want that?

I’m not certain. My pulse quickens, and I shut my eyes, willing my body to relax. We have bigger concerns than whether a demon finds me alluring. We have to survive. But even as I tell myself that, I can’t shake the warmth that spreads through me.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. I slip into sleep, cradling the fragile hope that we’ll see another sunrise without incident.

Morning arrives in a reluctant wash of gray light, filtering through the pines overhead. The river’s steady murmur greets me, along with the faint rustle of someone moving around camp. My body aches from lying on the hard ground, but at least the rest gave me a bit of clarity.

Ryn busies himself with stirring the remaining embers. Cole crouches by Jenna, checking her brow. Silas stands near the lean-to, crossbow slung over his shoulder, scanning the tree line. I don’t see Daeva immediately, but I sense his presence in the hush—like a watchful phantom on the periphery.

I shuffle over to check on Jenna. She cracks an eye open, wincing as she shifts. “Morning,” she mumbles, voice strained.

“How’re you feeling?” I ask, touching her forehead. She’s still warm, but not scalding.

“Better,” she whispers, though the weakness in her tone suggests otherwise. “That silverleaf brew helped, I think.”

Cole stands, stretching. “Ryn and I found a few more mushrooms, but not much else for breakfast,” he says apologetically. “I wish we had real food.”

I press my lips together, glancing at the river. “We can try to fish. Maybe set a simple net or trap— if we can weave something from branches.”

Silas drops down onto his haunches, picking up the cloth I used last night to wash bandages. “I’ll see what I can do. If we could at least catch a few small fish…”

He leaves to gather materials, and I head toward the place where we found water the night before. As I approach, I spot Daeva standing on the riverbank. He’s wearing his usual dark attire—ripped in places from the battles—and that bandage on his upper arm, now a bit discolored.

He must sense me coming. His gaze turns, capturing me in a quiet moment that makes my heart stutter. Memories of last night flash between us, unspoken. I force myself to push them aside, focusing on the present.

“How’s your wound?” I ask, gesturing to his arm.

He shrugs, rolling the shoulder experimentally. “Sore, but healing.”

“Thank you again,” I say softly, “for saving us from those orcs.”

Something like amusement flickers in his eyes. “You thank me often.”

“Well, you save us often.” My lips curve, a hesitant smile.

He returns a faint smile of his own, just enough to stir warmth in my chest. “I’d argue you’re just as integral to our survival. You managed to keep Jenna alive, found silverleaf, and you fought back when it counted.”

My cheeks flush, uncertain how to respond. Praise is alien to me—slaves in House Vaerathis rarely received anything but curses.

Before I can think of what to say, Silas and Ryn approach with a bundle of knotted reeds and branches. They’re mid-argument about the best way to fashion a crude fish trap. I step forward to help, grateful for the distraction from the tension that hums between Daeva and me.

As we work, I notice Silas’s occasional glances in my direction, and the uneasy set of his jaw whenever Daeva comes near. It’s clear he’s seen the subtle interplay between us, and he doesn’t like it. I can’t blame him. He’s known me for years, looked after me when no one else would. Now some demon— once-human or not—has swooped into my life, intangible and powerful, capturing my attention in ways I can’t fully explain.

I keep my head down, weaving the flexible reeds. The repetitive motion soothes me, helps me ignore the thrumming awareness that crackles whenever Daeva stands too close.

Eventually, we manage a rough cylinder shape. If we anchor it downstream with rocks and lure fish inside, we might catch a meal in a few hours. It’s a glimmer of hope.

Ryn, Cole, and I carry the contraption to a slower bend in the river, while Silas and Daeva remain behind to tend the camp. We wedge the trap between rocks, tying it off with a strip of cloth so the current won’t sweep it away. The water tugs at my ankles, swirling around me.

When we return to the bank, Daeva and Silas have already broken down some of the camp, tidying the area so it looks less like a permanent settlement. Daeva hoists Jenna carefully, mindful of her wound, and Silas shoulders the crossbow.

I drift over to Jenna, brushing stray hair from her forehead. She manages a small smile. “I’m slowing us down,” she murmurs apologetically.

“You’re alive,” I say firmly. “That’s all that matters.”

Daeva shifts her weight, and for a moment, his gaze meets mine. There’s a question there—something about how long we can keep carrying her. I nod, silently promising we’ll manage as long as it takes.

We spend the next hours in an uneasy calm, waiting for the trap to yield anything. Cole and Ryn rummage around, searching for edible plants, while Silas scouts the perimeter. I find myself drawn toward Daeva again and again, as if some invisible tether insists on pulling me close. The fleeting looks, the brush of our arms when we cross paths—it leaves me breathless and uncertain.

When we finally check the trap, we discover two small, wriggling fish. Hardly a feast, but enough protein to bolster our strength. We cook them over a tiny fire using sharpened sticks, dividing the portions with care so everyone gets a bite.

Jenna sits propped against a log, nibbling at the savory meat. “This is better than mushrooms,” she jokes weakly.

A thin layer of clouds dims the afternoon light. With no immediate threats barreling down on us, it’s almost easy to pretend we’re not fugitives. But fear lurks beneath that fragile peace; I can’t forget the wild light in the orcs’ eyes, or the cold fury of the elves who enslaved us.

Silas corners me when I finish my meager meal, pulling me aside near the pines. “Calla,” he begins, voice laced with concern. “You’re… you’re drawn to him, aren’t you?”

I stiffen. “Silas?—”

He sighs, frustration knitting his brows. “I’m not judging. I just worry. He’s a demon, or part demon, or something. We hardly know him, and you?—”

My cheeks flame. “He’s not like the others. You’ve seen how he helps us. And I…”

“You trust him,” Silas finishes for me, sounding pained.

I don’t know if trust is the right word. There’s a storm of conflicting feelings: fascination, gratitude, caution, attraction. It’s all too tangled to be summarized neatly. “We need him,” I say instead. “Without him, we might not survive another day out here.”

Silas gives me a resigned nod. “Alright. But keep your head, please.”

I force a small laugh, though it sounds hollow. “I’m trying.”

He returns to the camp, leaving me alone among the towering pines. My gaze drifts across the clearing until it settles on Daeva, who stands at the river’s edge again, as if drawn to the water. Maybe he’s replaying the memory of last night, the same way I am.

I close my eyes, swallowing the knot of anxiety in my throat. For years, my only goal was survival. Now that I have this precarious freedom, I’m confronting strange desires and alliances I never anticipated. A demon man—once human, still so painfully human in his regrets and empathy—draws me in ways I don’t fully understand.

Eventually, the wind stirs, carrying the promise of another incoming storm. We’ll need to move again soon, to avoid being pinned down by weather or roving patrols. But for now, we have a little time to breathe.

I return to the lean-to, checking on Jenna and helping reapply her bandages. Overhead, the forest canopy sways, casting shifting shadows across our makeshift camp. Ryn and Cole pack away what little supplies we have. Silas keeps glancing at Daeva, his expression torn, but he’s said his piece for now.

As dusk slips her dark fingers across the sky, I gather up the last of the damp rags. My eyes stray to Daeva’s silhouette, haloed by the dying light. He glances over his shoulder, our gazes colliding. Heat stirs in my cheeks, followed by a fierce rush of something that’s not quite fear and not quite longing, but a heady mix of both.

I know we can’t stay in this lull forever. Danger stalks our every step, and House Vaerathis won’t rest until they reclaim what they see as theirs—us, or him. But for tonight, I cling to the fragile comfort of a single truth: we’ve found each other in this world’s darkest corners, and somehow, that might make all the difference.

My stomach twists with anticipation for whatever tomorrow brings, whether it’s flight or confrontation. A soft sigh slips past my lips, and I settle by Jenna, offering her a reassuring pat on the hand. Above us, the stars blink into view between shifting clouds, and I can’t help glancing one last time at Daeva, whose moonlit features betray a subtle tenderness beneath all that lethal power.

I don’t know what to call this feeling, but it crackles in the space between us like a spark waiting for kindling. And as dark as our world is, that spark is enough to set my heart racing, no matter how dangerous it might be to let it catch fire.