N'Arahn swallowed dust, scratchy, old dust. He wheezed; the position in which he was pinned to the ground did not allow him to breathe too deeply, let alone cough in relief. By now he was no longer struggling. His reserves of strength were almost exhausted, only his rage kept him from giving up completely.

Jazahr's shoes came into his field of vision, only the gray tips of the cloth loafers visible beneath the long dark hem of his master's robe. One of the intriguer's captains had grabbed N'Arahn's horns and was pulling his head back, his breathing becoming even more shallow.

Whatever was coming now, it wasn't going to be pretty. It was not the first time Jazahr had had him chastised, and this time it had only been because N'Arahn had not been quick enough to kneel before his master. The intriguer despised warmongers; why he had been assigned as adjutant to him of all lords, N'Arahn did not know. Perhaps a punishment for something he had done in a previous incarnation. Perhaps just the usual random cruelty of the Red Depths.

The stretching of his hyperextended neck, the pain from the knees in his back and on his limbs, the dull throbbing of the deep bruises from the blows, all faded increasingly into the background. The young demon's field of vision narrowed, blackness swallowed the edges, slowly eating away any clear thoughts.

"I like you better this way." His master's voice was nearly drowned out by the rush of his own blood in his ears. Jazahr sounded almost regretful. "If only you would learn faster. But you warmongers know nothing but violence, understand nothing else. However, there is no need to worry, I will teach you humility and respect."

Cold metal, which immediately warmed up, wrapped itself tightly around N'Arahn's neck. Horror shot through him, tingling along every part of his body. No, no, no! Once more, against all odds, he found the strength to rebel, threw at least one of the captains off, but it was too late.

One free gasp; the almost-demons had let him go. Then, in one fell swoop, he lost control of most of his muscles. He drew in dust again as he lay face first on the stone floor. Hectic breaths made his chest tremble. Splinters of thought shot through his head. Anger. Panic. Helplessness. A trickle flowed from his hairline down the back of his neck; overly clear, he traced the trail the drop of sweat made on its short path across his skin.

Demon shackle. His master had put a demon shackle on him.

N'Arahn tried to calm himself. Just a new form of humiliation. Not even unusual. But the experience of powerlessness, of complete loss of control, had shocked him and panic was settling as an oppressive lump in his throat.

"You can start." That hadn't been meant for him, but for the captains who were still standing around him. He heard their soft noises as they moved. He forced himself to blink so that his eyes wouldn't get too dry, although he would have preferred to follow every movement. But he could see little beyond his master's feet and the hem of his robe, for Jazahr had placed himself in his field of vision.

Suddenly he was pulled up, just enough to bring him into a kneeling position. His head dangled onto his chest, held halfway upright by his arms.

"I know you want to fight. Your simple nature destines you to."

Wide straps were wrapped tightly around his chest over his clothes, wrapped around his arms, fastened to his wrists.

"I can have you beaten. But that hardly does any good, does it? Pain is your home, your drive."

The captains laid him roughly on his side, tied more slings around his legs and ankles, pulled his arms back so that his chest was stretched.

Tears gathered in N'Arahn's eyes. He didn't know whether it was from anger, despair or the fact that he had opened them so wide. Cold and heat flooded him as he was tightly bound.

"So you will learn humility through renunciation. You won't be able to move, you won't get any mana. Your body will atrophy until you can no longer wield it as a tool as you used to."

The almost-demons pulled him to his knees again, putting more straps on him, pulling his horns and thus his head into his neck. He felt them tying the knots together behind his back, from his head to the demon shackle, from there to his wrists and ankles.

Jazahr leaned over him, his slim, stern figure looming before him. Brown eyes that could have been mistaken for gentle pinned him down; a hard line had settled over the schemer's face.

"I will give you the opportunity to show me what you have learned. See if you finally understand what humility means." The demonlord looked at something in his hand, just out of N'Arahn's field of vision. "But not now."

With quick movements, he gagged N'Arahn so tightly that the corners of the adjutant's mouth tightened hard. Just before a blindfold took away his vision, the young demon caught a glimpse of a cruel little smile twisting his master's thin lips.

Caught in darkness, he flinched as a hand touched his head, stroking through his short hair. Then the grip of the demon shackle loosened and he could move his muscles again. Relief flooded through him for a moment, but immediately he had to fight for his balance and against tension and cramps.

He could endure this. He could do it. Only... Then what? How long would he be able to watch his body deteriorate with a clear mind?

- - - - -

Life in Jazahr's fortress went back to normal, while N'Arahn gradually sank into a state of loneliness and paranoia. He was at the mercy of everything around him and could only try to recognize what was threatening him through the sounds and conversations nearby. But what was almost worse was that nothing happened. For a while, he seemed to be forgotten.

He was starving. Time passed at a strange pace that seemed to oscillate between frantic and stagnant. The only interruptions to this state were the occasions when the straps around his body were checked and retightened or when Jazahr tested him. He knew he was now losing muscle at an ever-increasing rate, as he was unable to regenerate, let alone perform strengthening exercises. In the beginning, he had fought against the ligaments or tried to loosen himself up enough to slip out of a sling. But none of this had been successful. Apathy settled over him.

Would he be able to move at all if he was ever freed from the straps?

He had tried to count the passing cycles, but after a while he could no longer rely on anything. His senses relayed sounds and movements to him that might not exist; perhaps the lord of the fortress was also playing with him.

- - - - -

The first time the gag was removed, he still refused his master and was wordlessly bound again.

The second time he refused again and a sigh was the answer. A pause. Then: "I will give you one last chance to earn back your integrity. Should you continue to prove stubborn, I will begin to sell parts of your body." Another pause, realization streaking the darkness in N'Arahn with smears of red and white. "You will serve me, one way or another."

By the third time, darkness, decay and fear had corroded his pride and will to the point where he spoke the words the intriguer wanted to hear. His voice rasped in his throat as if he were breathing sand instead of air. But worse than the words themselves was the emptiness he felt when he spoke them. He was killing his true self in order to survive.

- - - - -

He lost all stability when the straps were removed. He couldn't stretch out, couldn't feel his limbs at first, then was overcome by a sharp burning sensation. No muscle would obey him, he was left weak and helpless on the floor next to Jazahr's throne, amidst the hustle and bustle of the fortress.

It was as bad as he had feared, but relief also flowed through him. And, for which he hated himself, gratitude.

A bowl of mana was set down beside him at some point, two sips roughly poured into him. The corners of his mouth, cracked and sore from the gagging, broke open; the taste of his blood mingled with the slight sweetness of the mana. It was not enough. Not enough for his thirst, and certainly not enough for his recovery. He retched; it had been too long since he had used his throat. And yet, it was a start.

It took half an eternity, according to his still disturbed sense of time, before he was finally able to hold the bowl and drink from it. His hands and arms were shaking so much due to the effort that he feared he would spill his salvation.

Slowly he became aware of things other than his hunger and weakness. He stank; his skin was scabbed under the clothes he had been wearing all this time. In some areas, the fabric had pressed into his flesh, binding with it. As painful as these extra movements were, he still had to take care of it. One by one, he removed his shirt and trousers from his body, peeled his boots off his feet; the air stung against the open flesh.

His chapped fingertips found the demon shackle, the wide, flat ring that closed around his neck. An eyelet at the back, sockets, probably filled with gemstones, at the sides and front, six in number. No escape.

Apart from the pain, he felt nothing now. The emptiness he had thrown himself into was all-encompassing. He found no anger, nor did he look for it. He found no will, no goal other than survival. And that was supposed to be easy. All he had to do was become a valuable tool, useful to his master.

As Jazahr's shadow fell upon him, he struggled to his knees, bending his upper body as far forward as his strained skin and shortened tendons would allow.

"Master." He didn't recognize his own voice, his tongue felt strange and numb in his mouth.

A hand patted the back of his head, grazing the demon restraint at the nape of his neck and leaving an unpleasant tingle that traveled down N'Arahn's spine. Then the presence of the intriguer brutally forced its way into his mind, probing his desires, testing his resistance. The adjutant did nothing; he was just a vessel, there was nothing he wanted to hide.

Clearly satisfied with what he had found, the demonlord withdrew. N'Arahn heard the grumbling sound Jazahr made when he had made a good deal.

"Good. It is wise of you to accept your role now." The intriguer's robes rustled, but the aspiring warmonger didn't look up. He hadn't been told to, so it wasn't his place.

"You may now go to your room and wash yourself. I expect you to be waiting for me at the start of the next cycle."

"Yes, Master."

N'Arahn had no idea how he was going to manage that. He was not yet able to walk, let alone spend hours at the side of the lord of the fortress to take care of errands for him. He didn't even know how much time he had until the next cycle was due.

But there was no room for doubt. The humiliation of his master's other servants watching him crawl towards his room did not affect him. He didn't care about the bloody tracks he left on his way. Only the next section counted. No decisions of his own, only forward.

A veil settled over the next time; he would not be able to say later how he had succeeded in fulfilling his master's requirements, but at the beginning of the next cycle he stood beside the lord of the fortress. On trembling legs, but clean and in fresh clothes.