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.

"What are you staring at? Are you getting scared?" Veidja would have called her smirk and tone mocking with any other demon, but with this warrior they seemed more playfully teasing. Familiar.

Slowly, she shook her head.

"No, just a memory."

The warrior's eyes narrowed to slits.

"I'm hoping of a hefty defeat."

Veidja reached for her helmet, then looked at the adjutant with a wistful smile.

"Of a companion. A friend."

That caught the demoness off guard. Veidja was not surprised; she herself was astonished at how openly she spoke to her opponent.

"You don't think I'm going to go easy on you now, angel."

Veidja put on her helmet and tightened the strap in a few simple steps. She picked up her weapons and got into position.

"Why should you? She never has." A grin spread across her face as if of its own accord. She was suddenly looking forward to this fight in a special way.

The demoness burst out laughing and reached for her hammer.

"I like you." Her large hands clasped the handle of the weapon, bringing it effortlessly to chest height despite the visible weight. "Whoever your friend was, today it's Naghi who's beating you up."

They nodded to each other, then there was no more hesitation.

The fight with the demoness had been a welcome distraction, even if the encounter with the adjutant had intensified her longing for the White Mountain and her companions.

Veidja could have used some encouragement and companionship right now. The visits from the demonlords had been more exhausting than she had expected. And they lingered on in restless dreams, barely restful sleep and a constant, but fortunately only slight, absence that the angel could not shake off. But there could hardly be any respite; the demonlord had already hinted at that.

So it had come as no surprise to her that N'Arahn had sent for her shortly after she had struggled out of the sweaty sheets. He hadn't witnessed the practice fight himself this time, although she couldn't be entirely sure. At least the concentration on the fight, the distraction, helped her to regain some sense of herself. To get her emotions and overstimulated senses back under control, at least as far as the "diplomatic" encounters with the higher demons were concerned.

In the meantime, she had thought about whether the warmonger perhaps also needed some time to himself. To sort out his thoughts and process the impressions. After all, visits were not exactly the order of the day in this fortress. She could tell by now: This demonlord was none too sociable.

The obligatory bath had had a double cleansing effect and she felt a little clearer and more settled afterwards. Nevertheless, she was exhausted and not exactly looking forward to the inevitable dinner with N'Arahn. Which, to her not insignificant surprise, was simply canceled.

One of the captains brought her a goblet, made sure she finished her drink and disappeared again without a word, leaving her alone with her restless thoughts.

Relieved on the one hand, she snuggled into the fresh fabrics of the bed. But then she couldn't rest for a long time, because the break in her usual routine worried her. Had something happened? Had He changed His mind so that she was deprived of any choice?

Was something wrong with N'Arahn?

She must have dozed off at some point, because it was a noise at the stone door that brought her up. She quickly rubbed her face and tightened the band that held her lengthening hair together. By now, her heartbeat no longer stumbled every time she woke up. She needed to sleep. And there had been plenty of opportunities to kill or injure her; there was no need for her to be caught sleeping to do so.

Her escort was numerous, as usual. Discouraging as far as her still-not-entirely-discarded escape plans were concerned, yes, but Veidja would take it as a compliment that the warmonger considered her sufficiently dangerous.

Even if she was ashamed of it, escape was not her first thought at the moment. Where had N'Arahn been? She wanted to see him, to make sure that... Yes, what? That he was all right? Hardly. More likely that there was no new catastrophic news. Exactly.

Her head felt hot and her muscles tightened with pain as she tensed. Anger rose up inside her. And even though she couldn't name what it was directed at, she welcomed it. It put her in the right mood to face the lord of the fortress.

Indeed, this little parade of sorts stopped in front of a rather unassuming rock door that opened into the all-too-familiar, plain room where she usually got her mana.

The warmonger was already seated in his armchair, leaning back comfortably, and made an inviting gesture towards the second seat. This time he was wearing his usual clothes, so she could see a lot of his rusty dark-red skin, which stood out clearly against the black ironwood. Veidja immediately relaxed a little.

Well, that shouldn't put you so at ease...

Slightly hesitant and still filled with quietly simmering anger, the angel sat down. She pulled her legs under her and watched N'Arahn carefully. Nothing indicated that anything was different than usual.

As expected, she was served a cup of mana, even if the portion was very small this time. Nevertheless, the routine was good for her.

And that should definitely worry you.

But she couldn't muster the strength to resist the only thing that was something of a constant in this hell. They drank in silence, but the demonlord was not particularly patient.

"Today we take a trip to the humans." N'Arahn looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Hm, how should she react to this? Was it a good sign? Or did he just want to show her the terrible workings of his kind? Or that of the humans themselves, who were also very creative in committing atrocities.

Whatever the demonlord was up to, she would have to put up with it anyway. Veidja nodded curtly and took the last sip of mana. Normally, she would be able to rest for one more cycle. The last round of battles in the arena had been tough; the arena master spared neither her nor the hell creatures sent after her.

Several of her freshly closed wounds were still throbbing. She healed quickly, but a little more rest would have done her good. The warrior thought with a certain satisfaction that the crawlers must be even worse off, if she hadn't left them as corpses in the sand.

"We're going to enjoy ourselves." N'Arahn looked directly at her this time, showing his now all too familiar crooked grin. "But you needn't worry. We're going to a rather... conservative event."

As if that would reassure her. What might a demonlord consider conservative? She raised an eyebrow questioningly. N'Arahn had gotten used to the fact that, contrary to his wishes, she didn't talk much.

"Oh come on, my angel, so little trust? We're just going to have a little fun. And, I'm happy to repeat, we're going into the human world. It can't be all that fancy there." He shook his head in slight rebuke.

"But all right, I won't be like that today." The demonlord spread his arms and announced in a solemn tone: "We're going to a dance café!" Veidja knew she was showing her skepticism too openly when disappointment spread across N'Arahn's face. "Really? No enthusiasm at all? This is going to be amusing!" Sometimes this demon was just weird.

N'Arahn stood up and once again Veidja realized how tall he was. The high back of the huge ironwood chair in which she herself sank served as a support for him at shoulder height. He could comfortably rest his arm on it if he wanted to look at her from above, as he was doing at the moment. The warrior immediately felt uncomfortable. Sure, he was taller, but this position overemphasized it. Veidja rose as well, under the demonlord's scrutinizing gaze.

Again and again, he managed to confuse her. N'Arahn's tone changed seamlessly from joking to commanding, his gaze from teasing to penetrating and his actions from empathetic to cruel. Was that his nature? Or pure calculation? Veidja couldn't see through him. But she had already shown weakness in his presence too often to be willing to grant him even small victories. It was just a shame that she still couldn't tell when he was counting something as a victory...

"Let me see how you present yourself around humans." Veidja took a deep breath as some of the perpetual pressure lifted from her. She had no idea how he did it, but none of her abilities had been released than just that: Customizing her appearance. And that was easy enough. Disappointment and relief rose up in the angel in equal measure. A spark of more freedom, but nothing that could really set her free. Be grateful for the little things. Perhaps it will be useful to you in other ways.