Split of the Worlds (18+)

Fatigue had settled into her bones, paralyzing her since she had been forced before His throne. She tried not to think about it, but there were few distractions in the chamber.

She had slept for a while, but even if her soul would have liked to find some more refuge in the embrace of the dreamless darkness, her mind had become restless.

Now she sat on the edge of her bed, her head hanging and aching, trying to ignore the fact that her clothes still smelled of ash and something more unpleasant.

What will happen now?

Tired. Sore. Shattered. Empty.

So far, she had always found some confidence in herself. And when she ran out of it, defiance and stubbornness had taken over, building her a bridge to the next island of hope despite all the setbacks.

But right now, she didn't know what else to cling to. Cut off from the steady stream of affection and support. Alone. Only enemies around her. In a few cycles, a decision was due that she basically couldn't make if she didn't want to lose herself. And then He.

It was a mercy that she could barely remember what had happened to her before His throne. Decomposition. Dying. Hers, that of other angels, of all feeling, of life itself. Veidja trembled again, every time the shreds of memory caught up with her.

Why not just give up? She couldn't win here, couldn't make a difference. Maybe if she gave up, the demons would quickly lose interest in her. She would have to suffer for a while, but then they would kill her. Or just forget about her... It didn't matter.

Her head was heavy in her hands, her elbows dug into her knees.

Heavy. Lonely. Dark.

Veidja's breathing was shallow. She was aware that panic lurked at the edge of her perception, but she wasn't sure if she wanted to push it back.

How long she sat there like that she didn't know and she barely reacted when the door to her chamber was opened.

She was called to take a bath and change her clothes as if she had just been fighting in the arena. What lay behind her was worse. She didn't mind the routine, but this time she couldn't feel even a hint of pleasure as the warm water cleansed her skin. Absentmindedly she washed herself, stood in the stream of air and put on the clothes that had been laid out. Pants, bands, a shirt with a stand-up collar, all in muted gray. How appropriate.

She was ready faster than usual, so she sat on the floor, head and back against the wall, and waited, trying not to think. She stared into the water of the pool, counting the tiny ripples that formed for reasons she didn't feel able to care about.

When the door opened, she simply remained seated. Why hurry? Mildly surprised, she caught the scent of the demonlord. Not your servants this time?

"Come."

Sure, why not. Following orders took the least of her energy right now.

Slowly, the battleangel stood up. Her body obeyed without a murmur, but her gaze remained fixed blearily on the floor. She trailed after the demon, following his soft noises without looking up. She could not muster the will to find out where he was leading her.

Only when N'Arahn stopped did she look around without interest. The corridor was carved or shaped from the same black stone as all the other corridors in the warmonger's fortress, but it ended in front of an intricate lattice gate. Swirling shadows prevented Veidja from seeing what lay beyond it.

N'Arahn placed one hand on the bars and with the other drew his sigil on a metal plate embedded next to the gate. The shadows between the metal bars receded and the angel involuntarily took a step forward so that she could see better.