Split of the Worlds (18+)

Chapter 8.3

She had already suspected, or rather feared, that Tazeel would not forego his visit. But she couldn't say what he expected from it. Surely he couldn't really believe that she would forget what he had done to her? In addition his doings in the human realm were still all too fresh in her mind.

She didn't sleep well the next night; dark thoughts and rushed dreams kept waking her up. It worried her that she couldn't predict what would happen. The seducer remained inscrutable to her.

At the start of the next cycle, Veidja took some comfort, albeit very little, in the fact that N'Arahn also seemed less than thrilled at the prospect of Tazeel's visit. He had dressed in black again, as he had done for all the recent official visits involving her. But his expression was sombre and the air around him seemed to vibrate with tension.

In a way, the slight nervousness that the lord of the fortress radiated made it easier for her to put aside the frustration that their last conversation had left her with.

Did he know that she could interpret changes in his tone and behaviour, those details, by now? Probably not.

You wouldn't want me to see your putative weakness, would you?

But she wasn't sure if she really saw it as a weakness. She watched the demon furtively. His thoughtful gaze, which seemed to pass through the closed double doors of the hall. The seemingly relaxed posture, leaning against his throne, the fingers of his hand repeatedly moving in tiny movements, as if he wanted to clench them into a fist.

The tension, the worry he showed, made him more comprehensible to Veidja. More approachable. Their similar feelings created a connection.

The warrior dug her fingers painfully into her leg through the fabric of her trousers.

Don't do that! He's just as cruel and your enemy as anyone else here. He may care. But you know very well that this is not about you as a person, but about you as a commodity, as an object of prestige. Don't try to make it easier for yourself by turning him into something better than he is. You can't afford to be naive.

And didn't she also prove his argument from yesterday right with this view? If only in terms of the similarities between the two of them. Surely she couldn't actually consider that?

N'Arahn might hate, and perhaps fear, Tazeel as much as she did, but his reasons were different. They were not allies, they just happened to have a similar dislike for the green-skinned demonlord.

The angel looked at the third ironwood chair that had been brought in for Tazeel's visit. Green sheets of fabric softened the hard edges of the dark piece of furniture somewhat, overgrowing the back and armrests like moss. Sick moss. The green had no healthy tone. Bands of a brown so deep it looked almost black held everything in place and completed the colour pattern of the Lord of Hell's right hand.

This fact had not surprised her when she had learnt it. All demons repelled her, but Tazeel had a special effect on her. Everything about him sent her senses into turmoil; he radiated a malevolence that seemed rooted in a deeper level of his soul. Yet his demeanour was not necessarily worse than that of other demonlords. Some of the things he had done had even been without any... artistry. She hadn't expected that from such a powerful demon, a seducer at that. The threats of a massive warmonger like Rackhar had left her cold, but one look at Tazeel was enough to shake her.

His visit would be a challenge. At the very least, he was the last demonlord who wanted to appraise her. But she didn't want to think about what would follow.

She released an unwilling snort as she adjusted her grey-blue belt and tried to find a more relaxed position on the hard armchair.

N'Arahn's gaze grazed her briefly. At least this green was vibrant; rich and lustrous. Stop. It.