Veidja had just found enough time to more or less digest the knowledge of the existence of a garden in the Red Depths and at least partially restore her inner balance when she was summoned to change into a fresh white dress and head for the throne room.

In plain language, summoned meant that an aisle-full escort made sure she didn't go anywhere else. N'Arahn had not come to pick her up himself, which almost disappointed her a little.

But after he had shown her around the garden, she was, she had to admit to herself, ready to very carefully engage in whatever he wanted to confront her with next. Or did he have to? He himself had not seemed too enthusiastic about his announcement that other demonlords were coming to visit.

In order for her to make a proper choice.

The warrior shook inwardly. That was so absurd. But thankfully she was stronger again, both physically and mentally, and felt ready to take on the challenges ahead.

She had hardly entered the throne room since the feast the warmonger had thrown a while ago. There had been no reason for it and she didn't want to be here now. To her relief, there was little to remind her of the orgy that had been celebrated in this room back then. Benches and tables were lined up in a rather functional way, there were no empty spaces for dancing or other games. No decorations, no buffet tables or servants scurrying around with carafes of drinks. However, there was once again a second chair made of ironwood next to the high-backed throne on the platform at the end of the hall.

Which guest of honor was expected this time? Or was every higher demon who appeared individually offered a seat next to the lord of the fortress?

The angel's escort dispersed, most of them disappearing through side doors or into low passageways. Only one of the demonlord's hulking captains remained at her side, half behind her back. She could feel the burning gaze of the misshapen creature between her shoulder blades. None of them would underestimate her anymore. Which was unfortunate, really.

"Keep going." The captain creaked out just that one command. Veidja was tempted to resist the request, but she didn't want to waste her regained strength on a pointless skirmish. As she walked with deliberate steps towards the pedestal, a crawler with fabric sheets in its red claws whizzed past her. Then another. And another pair.

The lowly servants tinkered with the chairs, draping the fabric over the seats and backrests. The throne was decorated in red and black, the smaller chair in white and silver.

Oh Mother...

Of course. She herself would be the guest of honor. N'Arahn would show her off. Which probably meant she would have to endure several demonlords today.

It was only when she received a rude shove in the back that she realized she had stopped. The captain pushed her further towards the pedestal and with a stumble, the warrior started moving again.

Veidja scolded herself for not having thought of it sooner. Not that it would have changed anything, but the realization had not come as a surprise. She shook her head at herself. She probably just hadn't wanted to think about it. Her previous run-ins with demonlords had been terrifying at times even nauseating, and the fact that N'Arahn had announced more private meetings with the higher demons had left her reeling at the time. Perhaps she had wanted, indeed needed, to suppress what was coming in order to survive.

Now the time had come.

After all, the word private appeared in a different light in a room like this.

When she reached the ironwood chair, she wanted to take a seat on it, but was stopped by a growl from the almost-demon. Annoyed, she rolled her eyes.

"What?"

"You're waiting for the Master."

Veidja stared at the captain in bewilderment. He returned her gaze impassively. There was no movement on his distorted face. She thought she saw only a small spark glowing in his eyes. A glimmer of the rest of his human soul? The proof of his demonic aspect?

Then a twitch in his face, barely noticeable.

In the next moment, the angel felt the presence of the lord of the fortress flood the hall. She resisted the instinctive urge to turn around, to stop turning her back on the danger. Instead, she continued to watch the captain, who had adjusted his posture a little and was now standing straighter, as far as his beefy and misshapen stature would allow.

She couldn't quite figure out these powerful servants of the demonlord. Of course they had to obey N'Arahn. It also seemed logical that they would try to anticipate his wishes or at least enforce them as soon as they became known to them.

For a while, she had thought that they were will-less; created purely to do the demonlord's bidding. Then she had suspected that they were kept docile by pain and fear. Perhaps mixed with a certain admiration, as they were bearers of dark souls who were probably impressed by power and violence. This seemed to have brought her closer to the truth.

But something kept flickering through, leaving her with the impression that there was more to it. A kind of respect?

Of course, she had little to compare it to. Was this how all almost-demons related to their masters? Even if it wouldn't help solve her tricky situation, she would try to find out more.

It was only when the iron grip of a red-skinned hand closed around her wrist that Veidja realized she had been about to touch the captain. A glow that had just been glistening at her fingertips went out. A tremor ran through the almost-demon and he took half a step back. For a moment, horror curdled into black tears in his eyes.

What had happened?

"What was that about?" Veidja's misty gaze slowly swept over to N'Arahn, who had appeared beside her.

A good question, too.

That she hadn't answered aloud became clear when the demonlord squeezed her wrist painfully and let out a low growl.

"I... I don't know." She blinked twice rapidly and her head instantly cleared. N'Arahn had apparently noticed a change as well, for he let go of her arm. But his expression remained angry, his eyebrows drawn together, his upper lip pulled up slightly on one side so that she could see his teeth flashing behind it.

"Sit down," he hissed. "And keep your wits straight."

Veidja sank into the high armchair without protest. The cloths with which it had been adorned cushioned the roughest hardness and sharpest edges, making it feel rather comfortable, contrary to her expectations. The support it gave her did her good, for she was still a little dizzy.

Why had she wanted to touch the captain? Why had her fingertips glowed? What had she sensed, hidden under the bulging skin plates and the ingrown metal?

N'Arahn had removed his servant and another had taken the place next to her chair. They were barely distinguishable to the angel, but the latter's skin had a slightly yellowish tinge. It was difficult to tell, as the lighting conditions in the fortress were constantly playing chromatic tricks.

She quickly turned her attention back to the hall. She didn't need any confusion right now. As much as she hated to agree with the demonlord, she had to be vigilant, with a clear, sharp mind. That was true anyway, but even more so now.

With a sideways glance, she looked to N'Arahn, who was standing in front of his throne, giving some final instructions. It was about the order of the guests, who was allowed how close to the podium, how much time should pass between visits. Rules that had no doubt already been discussed several times.

Only now did she notice that the demon was dressed in an extremely unusual outfit for him. He had swapped his usual war skirt for trousers, a sleeveless tunic and a belt. Bright sun, he is even wearing boots. Veidja made a suppressed sound in her amazement.

Changes had a special meaning here, so she now took a closer look at the lord of the fortress. He had dressed in the exact colors that adorned his throne. His colors, darkest black and deep red, with a hint of rust. He was dressed almost entirely in black, so that the fabric contrasted with his skin. The strands of hair tied together at the back of his head were held in place by a red ribbon, with more red ribbons braided into the hair flowing down his back. His belt, a narrow strip of fabric, also wrapped around his waist in red. The cut of his clothes emphasized the advantages of his battle-hardened body without foregrounding the violent part of his nature too much. Even the long scar on his neck was largely concealed by the high collar of his tunic.

If he hadn't been who he was, she would have found him really attractive. Fortunately, his horns, which infallibly identified him as a demon, put a serious damper on this unhealthy thought.

She wasn't the only one being presented today, Veidja suddenly realized. N'Arahn and his, well, court were also being put to the test. By the visiting demonlords. But also by her. Unlike during or after the arena battles, he had to expect her to compare him. Assessing his power, weighing his behavior against that of the others. And ultimately decide against him.

Kind Mother. He puts effort into pleasing me, doesn't he?

Of course he did. After all, losing exclusive access to her would also mean a loss of face and power for him. She herself was a commodity, just as his endeavors for her were currency. Veidja had a bad taste in her mouth.

N'Arahn finished his discussion and turned to face her. When he noticed her inquiring gaze, a small smirk lifted one corner of his mouth, but his eyes remained serious. He took a step forward so that he was looking down at her and she involuntarily tilted her head back. Before she could get angry at her reaction, the demon lowered himself into a crouch in front of her.

"I'm glad you like it." He pointed at himself and winked at her, but a shadow remained around his eyes. The demonlord was nervous. Tense. Even though he acted calm, she could feel it now that he was so close to her.

"I'm expecting some visitors today who want to meet you." Just a short pause, during which she didn't interrupt him. What else could she say? "Don't believe anything they say. They'll tell you whatever they think you want to hear." N'Arahn contorted his face into a grimace. "They are demons, after all." Veidja didn't respond, which visibly disappointed him. He probably would have liked to relax a little with his weak joke, but she didn't feel like responding to his whims. The disgusting taste in her mouth had turned into a proper nausea.

The demonlord straightened up again with a mumble that sounded like then... not, so that he towered over her. "They might even try to threaten you. Ignore it. You're safe here." Something in his tone made her raise her eyes. The demonlord didn't look at her, but suddenly radiated an immovability that made him seem like part of his stone fortress. "I'll see to that."

- - - - -

He really didn't feel comfortable with the whole thing. He almost got a cramp in his hand trying to stop his fingers from getting loose and drumming on the armrest of his throne. His leg kept wanting to bounce too, and it was starting to get exhausting trying to look relaxed while his whole body was screaming for movement to express his nervousness.

If he didn't usually like visitors too much, this parade of demonlords was a particular pain. He had no choice but to grant them access to his fortress and the angel within; He had asked for it and He would get what He wanted. So N'Arahn had spread the word that today was an opportunity to inspect the angel and exchange a few personal words in private.

Of course, not all the demonlords would come, for various reasons: a complete lack of interest, the fear of showing weakness through interest, other obligations. Or the certainty that they would get an even more private appointment.

Tazeel had not contacted him yet, but N'Arahn was under no illusion that he would leave him and his angel alone.

He had, however, been surprised by the response his offer had received. Almost twenty high demons of all castes would appear today, either the demonlords and duchesses themselves or their aides. Some had already seen Veidja in action in the arena, but wanted to use this setting to throw their weight around. After all, word had spread quickly about what the prize could be: An angel, freely provided by Him.

This thought was like a blow to his most delicate parts for N'Arahn every time. It took his breath away and brought dark pain.

Don't be like that. Even if she leaves, you'll hardly lose any prestige. You're known for your strength, for fighting angels. No one really expects you to show the qualities of a trickster. You'll hardly lose anything.

He glanced over at Veidja, who was being entertained by an aide with a few cheap illusions while he enthusiastically extolled the qualities of his Mistress. A seductress who "would ask little of a radiant appearance. The light you bring with you is enough. You could be bedded in soft pillows at all times while your every need is attended to." The adjutant, his name indifferent to the demonlord, had curly caramel brown hair that he kept touching with his fingertips. His face was smooth and almost unnaturally even, his limbs rather frail, but he did not appear weak. He sat with his legs bent sideways at the warrior's feet, as if he were her most devoted servant.

The angel had leaned forward slightly in order to follow the colorful, cheerful images that the demon was creating above his palm. A spark of light glittered in her eyes and a tiny smile seemed to enhance the soft glow that was always around her. Did it really take so little to charm the angel? Kind words, a little tinsel and feigned admiration?

The warmonger felt a wild desire rise within him to tear this pretty dazzler away from his angel and introduce him to the true joys of the Red Depths. The ones that began with blood and ended in swirling blackness.

A pain shot through his hand. He gripped the armrest so tightly that he cut the fabric and his skin with the stone edge. Furtively, he wiped the blood from the fabric, its colors swallowing and hiding the signs of his rage. A tiny trickle of shadow power closed the narrow wound without leaving a trace.

No, of course. The loss will hardly be noticeable to you.