N'Arahn's legs were heavy. With every step, he had to force himself harder to move forward. He stopped for a moment, leaning against the grey, warm stone wall, feeling the connection with this fortress that was not his.

He belonged to the household, belonged to his master. That was why the fortress accepted him, even provided him with a little more strength and stability.

But it was not a home. And to some extent he would always remain a misfit, because Jazahr hated him.

Ah, perhaps hate was too strong a word after all, because he would have had to mean something to him. It was more like disgust, revulsion. And a good dose of indifference.

Unfortunately, he was not indifferent enough to leave him alone.

And N'Arahn couldn't satisfy him either. No matter how hard he tried to become the tool Jazahr might have wished him to be, it was never enough. Not his service, not his obedience. And instead of gradually fitting in better, becoming more like his master wanted him to be, he found it increasingly difficult to give the rage seething inside him a meaningful direction.

One that would not cause him to bleed to death under one of the intriguer's scalpels.

Even if his existence was miserable, he didn't want to die.

He had only survived the last examination because he had somehow made Jazahr believe that his rage was directed at Llanna. The seductress who had rejected and mocked him. There had been enough truth in this version that his master had laughed at him and his simple nature. It amused him that his adjutant was frustrated and humiliated. It fitted his image of warmongers. Fortunately.

N'Arahn let his forehead fall against the stone a few times. The slight pain of the rough surface digging into his skin helped him pull himself together.

He shouldn't take so much more time. Whatever Jazahr had planned for him in the labs, it would be painful. Even more so if he kept his master waiting and thus annoyed him.

With a sigh, the young demon pushed himself off the stone and shuffled on towards his destination. As he walked, he pressed a finger into his throat, digging it under the demon's shackle, a bit here, a bit there. Just for a brief moment, in one small spot, he didn't feel the pressure of the metal on his skin.

"I can't take the shackle off you. But I can weaken it. The rest is up to you."

Llanna's words rang through his head like a mocking echo.

Whatever she had done with the shackle, he had not felt the effect so far. His master was still able to incapacitate him with a thought, to take away all control over his muscles.

N'Arahn tensed at the memory of the last time. From one moment to the next, it had become impossible for him to breathe. And since there had been no warning, what fun, he had collapsed after a few moments. His panic had only accelerated the process.

He had been practising ever since. But he couldn't be prepared for everything. And if his master decided to cut him off from his air supply for too long... Well, then it was over. But at least he wouldn't end in fear and tears.

N'Arahn straightened as the metal door to the lab came into view. The straps he had to continue wearing tightened over his body, rubbing over his skin until they moulded to his posture. A growl erupted from the adjutant, an answer, a promise. He would make sure he could take them off.

There had to be some way. Even if Llanna had lied to him. Which was likely. Perhaps she had only fed on this moment of burgeoning hope, knowing it would be crushed to dust.

Hope was destructive. He would no longer allow himself to indulge in fantasies. Would no longer allow them to weaken him.

He opened the door as if he had come here as quickly as possible. His master didn't even look up, only his other aide, an intriguer named Pirou, raised his eyes briefly before turning back to his instruments.

Pirou had been transferred to be at Jazahr's service after N'Arahn, but of course the bald adjutant with the bright, intelligent eyes had immediately inspired more goodwill in his master than the warmonger had ever experienced. The budding intriguer, despite being given preferential treatment, was not cruel to N'Arahn, not even condescending. His politeness irritated the young warrior, but they mostly avoided each other. That seemed to be the best way for both of them to deal with the situation, as they agreed wordlessly.

Nevertheless, Pirou had often hurt N'Arahn, always on their master's orders.

When they tore out his fingers to test how quickly they grew back on, depending on how rich the mana they gave him was.

When Jazahr had his captains beat the warrior up and then cut him open to see how deep the bruises went.

When the two intriguers carved all the runes of a ritual into his body to test how painful the process was. "Is this procedure really worth it?" - "A warmonger can obviously endure it better, but for them the profit from it is also the lowest." They had talked about the ritual they never wanted to complete while his blood flowed from countless wounds onto the metal table.

In the end, it was always Pirou who supplied the battered fellow adjutant with mana. Jazahr didn't really seem to care whether his servant healed again after his research.

N'Arahn did not hate the young demon. He had to obey just like himself. To his master. To his nature. At least he was not sadistically minded, which was why he refrained from killing him when the opportunity arose. Basically, things could only get worse.

Now they were here again.

Why am I letting them do this to me? I'd probably be better off just letting them kill me.

No.

He could endure it, could get through it all and then come out stronger. Learn something, cope with more pain.

The bright light Jazahr preferred in his lab threw blinding reflections off the metal of the table in the center of the room. It was cold, colder than any other room in the fortress. N'Arahn thought he could smell the pain of the countless test subjects, although nothing here reminded him of them. Everything was clean, downright pure.

He knew that because it was his other task here.

As soon as he was able to, afterwards, or when he hadn't been lying on the table himself, he came here. Burned out everything, that had been soiled, with fire. His hands traced every bloody trickle, hovered over every puddle, vaporized tears and sweat.

He hated this work, but sometimes he could see something good in it. Could erase his own pain. At least the visible reminders of it.

"Lie down on the table." Jazahr's voice came through to him like the crack of a whip, though his master had spoken in more of an absent tone to him. The intriguer still had his back turned to him, seemingly preoccupied with other things. Some crystals lay in front of him; he was probably sorting through the results of other experiments or noting down what plans he had for today.

There was no point in worrying about it. N'Arahn just wanted it to be over soon, whatever his master had planned for him.