Split of the Worlds

Chapter 1.2

He was excited. Indeed, something new, unexpected, was happening. He felt more alert than in the last hundred cycles, curious about the variety an angel could bring to his halls. He wanted to study her. Confuse her. And see what would happen.

His life as warmonger N'Arahn had become a nuisance lately. He had already started thinking about how to send his Old Soul back on the journey. But now...

The room where he waited for his servants to bring the angel to him was plain. His home was called Red Depth, but near the battlefield, where his fortress was hidden in the ground, earth and stone were black. And so the rooms consisted mainly of the dark stone and this one was no exception. It was a room without decorations, more like a dungeon than a room to be in. However, just right for the purpose of the demonlord. Nothing distracting. Just a stone table, two dark, high-backed chairs. Made of ironwood, downright damn heavy. One of the chairs was facing the door, the other was on the right side of the table. The demonlord looked at the double doors, lost in thought.

The warrior would shine almost painfully here. An angel in his halls... N'Arahn shook his head slightly. It was amazing.

Angels were not an unfamiliar sight to him. At every battle in the wastelands, he threw himself at the front lines of the warriors with their flashing armor. These encounters were mostly brief and very bloody; he raced from one to the next, he didn't care if he gave them the fatal blow. Only the ecstasy counted, the swath he cut. If he was really lucky, one of the archangels was on the battlefield. The only ones who were one to one his equal, maybe even superior. But what kind of demonlord would he be if he allowed an even fight? His creatures were legion, and he took advantage of that. But it was the Eternal War, and so the crowds of demons and angels left the field decimated but never finally defeated.

Now, however, he would be facing an angel, looking him in the eye without falling directly into a rush. He would be able to take the time to watch, without the heat of battle, without focusing on the killing. N'Arahn was excited about this experience. They would dine together. Maybe talk. He would definitely try to learn something.

What do you want to do afterwards? The corner of his mouth lifted as if by itself. He tilted his head back, propped it up on the rock-hard backrest, traced a groove in the ironwood of the armrest with a fingernail.

Unsurprisingly, his first thoughts led him to the battlefield. Two black blades cut the angel into manageable pieces. Too easy, too little.

Torture? The angel in chains on a table, nails, a hammer, branding irons heat up white in a bowl of glowing coals, thin knives, extremely fine ropes. Making the angel scream would surely be fun. And how long do you find it tempting if she doesn't fight back? N'Arahn snorted. One of the reasons why he was no longer concerned with mankind. It was boring when one's own superiority was too great. To resist, she needs hope...

Anyway, to confuse her would help keep it interesting. Treating her unexpectedly well was part of it. Right now, she would probably wash the blood and grime of the Eternal Battle from her skin.

Images forced themselves upon the demonlord: a naked body immersed in water, hands glide over skin, streaking drops, blurring them into shiny patterns.

It barely touched him. He didn't like to remember the reasons for this. His grin of anticipation had given way to baring teeth, which he shook off with a growl. Maybe later ... in case she needs an incentive for resistance.

He had to get to know her a little to find the right balance. What was it that drove her? What would her break so that she would be useless to him?

If she even survived by the time they met.