A land held in thrall by dark magic. A rebel in chains. In the heart of the torture dungeon, more than death awaits him, for the cruel white devil is a master of his craft.
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Text translated from original german with the help of deepl.com.
Part 3 - Devotion
The silence in the neighboring cell was loud and final. Maraklen did not return, and Adion often found himself standing by the bars, looking over at the pile of straw that had been his neighbor's bed. The sight, however, left him strangely indifferent. In fact, he felt no sense of loss or as much as horror, but rather, at most, quiet relief. The former friend had met his true self and rejected it; more than that, he had threatened to reveal it to the world and thus humiliate him even beyond death. Adion had believed for a while that he deserved this punishment, but what he deserved and what he did not deserve left him cold by now. With Maraklen's bleeding body, he had also handed over the rest of his past to the destructive hands of Demar, and along with his erstwhile friend, he had shed the idea of good and evil imposed by overprotective mothers and idealistic heroes, too. He simply was what he was.
All that mattered was no longer must, should, deserve, but only want. And since he hadn't lied to Maraklen and was indeed convinced of his impending end within these walls, his only aspiration was Demar's game. Why waste his remaining time trying to keep himself from what he longed for more than anything else? Why bother weeping in shame and berating himself, rejecting his true self just as Maraklen had done? Why still suppress what had been inside him all his life, desperate to satisfy its hunger? He dropped all pretenses and although he stood in bandages among the stinking straw of a barred cell in the tyrant's castle, he stood upright on both feet and felt liberated. Free to admit to himself that he loved what Demar did to him and that the only reason he wanted to recover was to be invited back to play together as soon as possible. He desired the demon Demar and at their last meeting he was sure that Demar had revealed that he wanted him too. Despite his failings in the last two games. The lack of self-control was the only thing that still troubled Adion. Next time, he vowed, he would be more than a squealing whore. He was not well cared for by all means, but at Demar's command he had been treated better for some time and, as Demar had put it, patched up. He had been given a mattress to sleep on and clothes, albeit thin ones, but they were enough to keep him from getting too cold. He was given more bread, presumably Maraklen's portion no longer needed, and his wounds had been treated and bandaged. His bruises disappeared and even the burn on his face gradually turned into a smooth scar.
Adion awaited Demar's invitation every day and one evening as he listened in peaceful meditation to what he thought was rain outside in the world, two guards came to his cell.
"Today's your big day, laddie," one murmured with a smile. "You're going back to the dungeon, and if you don't start talking this time, it's going to look bad for you!"
Adion, sitting cross-legged in the middle of his cell, slowly opened his eyes and remained unimpressed. "I'm ready," he said calmly.
The guards exchanged glances. "The overconfident composure of the doomed man," one said, shaking his head. "You'll lose that soon enough, maggot."
