Page 7 of The Demon’s Little Girl

ROVAK

T he morning light filters through the tall windows of my private dining chamber, casting long shadows across the polished table.

I sit at the head, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the dark wood as I wait for Liora to appear with my breakfast. The chair across from me—her usual spot when she serves the morning meal—remains empty.

She's never late. In six years, not once.

My jaw tightens as I check the position of the sun again. A full fifteen minutes past her usual time, and there's no sign of her quick footsteps in the corridor outside, no soft knock announcing her arrival with the perfectly prepared meal I've come to expect.

Something's wrong.

I push back from the table with enough force to scrape the chair legs against stone, the harsh sound echoing in the empty chamber.

My boots strike the floor in sharp staccato beats as I head for the door, already anticipating the explanations I'll demand from whoever's responsible for this disruption to my routine.

The kitchen should be bustling at this hour—Akira directing the preparation of the day's meals while Tom handles whatever tasks need muscle rather than skill.

Instead, I find them clustered near the main prep table with Avenor, their heads bent together in hushed conversation that stops abruptly when my footsteps announce my approach.

"—what do you mean she's not there?" Akira's voice carries a sharp edge of concern that makes my stomach clench with something I refuse to acknowledge as fear.

"I checked three times," Avenor replies, his usual sardonic tone replaced by something grimmer. "Her bed hasn't been slept in, and?—"

"Where is Liora?"

My voice cuts through their whispered conference like a blade, and all three of them whip around to face me with expressions that confirm every dark suspicion already forming in my mind.

Tom goes pale, his usual chattiness evaporating under the weight of whatever knowledge they're sharing.

Akira's weathered face creases with worry lines that seem deeper than they were yesterday.

But it's Avenor who holds my gaze, his navy eyes filled with the kind of careful consideration he uses when delivering news that's going to hit like a physical blow.

"Rovak." He straightens to his full height, shoulders squaring in preparation for whatever conversation he knows is coming. "We should talk."

"Talk here." My voice comes out rougher than intended, the careful control I maintain in all business dealings fraying at the edges. "Where. Is. She."

But Avenor shakes his head, already moving toward the kitchen's rear entrance that leads to the estate's private gardens. It's the kind of gesture that speaks to years of working together, understanding when certain conversations require privacy even from household staff who've earned our trust.

Tom and Akira watch us go with expressions that make my chest feel tight with something that might be panic if I were the type of demon who allowed himself such weaknesses.

The morning air hits my face as we step outside, carrying the scent of aracin blossoms and fresh earth that usually brings a measure of calm to even my worst days.

Today it does nothing to ease the tension coiling in my shoulders, the growing certainty that whatever Avenor is about to tell me will fundamentally alter something I've been protecting for six years without fully admitting it to myself.

"She wasn't feeling well last night," he begins without preamble, knowing better than to waste time with cushioning language when I'm already balanced on the edge of losing what remains of my patience. "Said she was tired, looked pale. I made sure she got to her room safely."

"And?"

"This morning I went to check on her." He runs one hand through his silver hair, a nervous gesture I've only seen him use a handful of times in all the years he's served as my personal guard. "The door was unlocked, but she was gone. Bed hadn't been slept in."

The words hit like individual hammer blows, each one driving deeper into my chest until breathing becomes a conscious effort rather than an automatic function.

"Gone how?" My voice sounds foreign even to my own ears, stripped of the authority that usually commands immediate answers. "Gone where?"

"I don't know." The admission costs him something—Avenor takes pride in knowing everything that happens on the estate, in being two steps ahead of any potential threat to my interests or safety.

"There's no note, no sign of struggle. Her clothes are still in the wardrobe, but she's just.. . not there."

I turn away from him, needing a moment to process information that doesn't fit with anything I know about Liora's character or habits.

She doesn't leave the estate without permission, doesn't disappear without explanation.

In six years, she's built routines around this place that anchor her to it as surely as chains might anchor a ship to its harbor.

The gardens stretch before us, carefully maintained beds of flowers and vegetables that she tends with the same quiet attention she brings to every task.

I've watched her work here from my study window more times than I care to count, memorizing the way she moves between the plants with gentle efficiency, coaxing life from earth with hands that somehow remain soft despite years of labor.

"It's not like her," I say finally, the words feeling inadequate to express the magnitude of wrongness that's settling in my bones like poison.

"No," Avenor agrees quietly. "It's not."

And it doesn't sit right with me.

The first day, I tell myself she'll return by evening.

Some emergency with other humans in the area, perhaps, or a task that required her to venture beyond the estate boundaries for reasons she'll explain when she gets back.

I maintain my usual schedule—meetings with trade contacts, review of shipping manifests, correspondence with suppliers—but find myself listening for her footsteps in every corridor, watching for her familiar silhouette at every corner.

She doesn't return.

The second day brings a restlessness I can't properly contain.

I snap at Tom when he fumbles the morning tea service, reduce a grain merchant to stammering apologies over a minor discrepancy in his latest shipment, and spend an hour pacing my study instead of reviewing the contracts that demand my attention.

When Akira brings dinner to my private chambers instead of Liora, the older woman's eyes hold a sympathy that makes my jaw clench with frustrated rage.

"She'll come back," Akira says softly, setting the tray on my desk with practiced care. "Whatever's keeping her away, she'll find her way home."

Home. The word hits strangely, carrying implications I've never allowed myself to examine too closely.

By the third day, my carefully maintained composure begins to crack in places I can't control.

Sleep becomes sporadic, broken by dreams where I search empty corridors calling her name into silence that stretches infinitely in all directions.

My appetite disappears entirely, though I force myself to eat enough to maintain functionality.

I start asking questions.

The market vendors I frequent for estate supplies shake their heads when I describe her—a young human woman with mahogany curls and amber eyes, last seen three days ago.

None of them remember anyone matching that description passing through their stalls, though they promise to send word if she appears.

The contacts who handle my shipping arrangements become uncomfortable when I press them for information about human trafficking routes, their usual easy cooperation replaced by nervous deflection.

They know better than to ask why a trade master would suddenly develop an interest in the movements of escaped servants, but their silence speaks volumes about conclusions they're drawing.

By the end of the first week, I've expanded my search beyond legitimate channels.

The slavers' compound on the eastern edge of Bilgonith reeks of desperation and broken dreams, housed in buildings that were once some merchant's warehouse before falling into less savory hands.

The demon who runs the operation, a scarred volvath named Thexis, greets my arrival with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for wealthy customers with questionable requests.

"Lord Rovak." His bow carries just enough deference to avoid outright insult while making clear he considers us equals in this particular transaction. "What brings you to my humble establishment?"

"Information." I place a small pouch of nodals on his desk, the metallic clink drawing his yellow eyes like a lodestone draws iron. "I'm looking for a human woman. Young, early twenties, brown skin, mahogany hair."

His scarred features twist into something approximating thought as he mentally catalogs his recent acquisitions. "Human women are always in demand. Can you be more specific about when she might have... become available?"

The euphemism makes my hands curl into fists at my sides, but I maintain the neutral expression that's served me well in countless business negotiations.

"Three days ago. She would have left an estate northeast of the city, possibly traveling alone."

Thexis shakes his head slowly, genuine regret coloring his voice as he pushes the pouch of nodals back across the desk toward me.

"Haven't had any new human acquisitions this week.

Business has been slow—most of the fresh stock gets snapped up by the pleasure houses before it reaches my warehouse.

" He pauses, studying my face with the calculating attention of someone who's made a career out of reading desperation in potential customers.

"But I can ask around, put the word out.

Sometimes they surface in private sales before hitting the general market. "

The thought of Liora in some noble's private collection, reduced to entertainment for demons with more money than conscience, sends a wave of rage through my system so intense that red creeps into the edges of my vision.

"Do that." My voice comes out rougher than intended, carrying undertones that make Thexis lean back slightly in his chair. "Send word immediately if you learn anything."

I leave additional payment for information and promises that anyone who assists in locating her will be rewarded generously.

The slavers' network extends into places my legitimate contacts fear to tread, and if Liora has fallen into those shadows, they're my best hope of finding her before she disappears entirely into the vast machinery of human suffering that powers so much of demon society.

The second week brings interviews with every trade contact I've cultivated over years of business relationships. Ship captains, caravan leaders, merchants who move goods between cities and might have noticed a lone human woman attempting to purchase passage to anywhere that isn't here.

Most of them respond with the careful politeness of people who depend on my goodwill for their livelihoods, promising to investigate and report back immediately if they uncover any leads.

A few ask pointed questions about why I'm personally involved in tracking down an escaped servant, their curiosity barely concealed behind professional courtesy.

I give them all the same answer: she possesses information about estate security that could prove valuable to competitors.

It's a lie that fits neatly with their understanding of the cutthroat nature of trade politics while avoiding more complicated truths about why her absence has become an obsession that consumes more of my attention with each passing day.

None of them have seen her.

By the third week, I've exhausted every legitimate avenue of investigation and moved into territories that would raise eyebrows among my usual business associates.

Informants who traffic in gossip and secrets, smugglers who move people as readily as goods, black market dealers who specialize in untraceable transactions.

The consensus remains the same: no one matching Liora's description has been seen attempting to leave Bilgonith through any of the usual channels available to humans with limited resources.

It's as if she simply vanished from existence, leaving no more trace than morning mist touched by sunlight.

The not-knowing becomes a constant ache that settles behind my ribs like a broken bone that refuses to heal properly.

I catch myself pausing at corners where she used to work, listening for humming that will never come.

The estate feels different without her presence threading through it, less alive somehow, as if she took some essential quality with her when she disappeared into whatever darkness has claimed her.

Avenor tries to maintain normalcy, handling my schedule with his usual efficiency while carefully avoiding any mention of the increasingly desperate nature of my search efforts.

Tom jumps at shadows and speaks in whispers when he thinks I'm out of earshot.

Akira serves meals with gentle insistence that I eat, her weathered hands steady even as her eyes reflect the same worry that gnaws at my insides like acid.

None of them ask why losing one human servant has reduced me to this state of barely contained desperation. None of them voice the questions I see lurking behind their careful expressions.

They don't need to. I know what they're thinking, what conclusions they're drawing from my behavior.

They're right, of course. This isn't about losing a valued member of the household staff, isn't about security concerns or damaged reputation or any of the rational explanations I've offered to outside parties.

This is about the fact that somewhere in the past six years, Liora stopped being just another human in my household and became something I can't adequately name but can no longer imagine existing without.

And now she's gone, vanished into a world that devours humans like her without mercy or hesitation, leaving me with nothing but the growing certainty that I failed to protect the one thing that mattered most.