Split of the Worlds (18+)

Chapter 7.4

As Veidja approached the entrance to the arena, the familiar smell hit her: Hot sand, with a hint of blood and sweat. Sometimes she smelled this mixture outside the arena as well, shortly after waking up, or in the monotonous corridors of the fortress, as if the vapors had followed her.

She sighed, placed a hand on the bars and waited to step out. She enjoyed and dreaded these moments in equal measure.

Sure, she was able to go about her task, was able to learn. When she stepped into the sand, demons died a short time later. But each time, she could be wounded so badly that she ended up a crippled husk of no use to N'Arahn, so he would leave her to others.

And that was what she was afraid of. That the thought of being dependent on a demonlord felt almost normal. To fight and bleed for his amusement and profit, did that really become the meaning of her life? Did she accept this role?

Or was she just afraid of a fate that seemed unbearable? What would she be prepared to do to escape it? It was easy to convince herself that everything was half as bad as long as she kept killing demons. Decimating the enemy, as was her destiny. But she had already allowed herself to be degraded to an exhibit. What kept her from doing anything else that would make her stray further from her principles?

So far, most things had been black or white, so it was easy to make a decision. She feared the gray.
With a soft rattle, the grate began to move. Veidja's fingers slid over the smooth metal.

Wrong time for these considerations.

The sword sheath slapped gently against her leg as she stepped out into the brightly lit arena. For a moment, she took in the usual murmur and rustle, then continued on her way. She didn't know exactly what to expect today, but for starters it was probably going to be a fight against an adjutant. N'Arahn wanted her to be fresh for these fights; she would make more of an impression on the other higher demons.

Reaching about the center of the arena, she set her shield down in the sand in front of her, balancing her helmet on the edge with one hand and smoothing her unruly half-side braid with the other. Her hair had grown longer than she normally wore it. She was still experimenting with what was most practical for her, but so far she could only manage the braid on one side. At least there was a little less tangling under her helmet than if she had left her hair completely loose.

Through the barred gate on the other side of the arena stepped a hulking figure. At a distance, she could only make out rough colors and a huge weapon that the person carried leaning on their shoulder. She observed the swaying but confident gait of her opponent, locating weak points. Hardly any metal armor, mainly flexible leather stretched over the muscular arms and legs. Fur trimmings, quite archaic. The free skin was dark, almost black, but streaked with glowing green patterns.

As the budding warmonger - she simply couldn't belong to any other caste - stood a few steps away from Veidja, a broad grin crossed her face. Her brown hair fell over her shoulders in several twisted braids, tusks protruding from between her full lips. Veidja couldn't see any more horns or spikes, but some demons concealed them so that they could be used as hidden weapons.

With a mighty jerk, the demoness lifted her weapon from her shoulder and let the huge hammer land in the sand beside her. She winked at the angel and reached to her hip, pulling a wide band from the fur-adorned belt. In routine movements, she tied the individual braids into a more compact bundle, ready for battle.

A strange pain ran through Veidja's chest as she followed the warrior's every move, frozen in place. The way she stood, the movements of her hands. That grin.

She found it hard to breathe, memories of another time, another warrior, flaring up against the armor she had built around her heart. Ralal.

The adjutant crossed her arms in front of her chest and fixed her gaze on the angel.