Split of the Worlds (18+)

N'Arahn tried to find another position against the high back of his chair. One that didn't make him feel like a naked blade.

The other visitors had been more tolerable, he decided, as he watched Veidja become mesmerized by the aide. She had endured the previous offers with a rather stony face, remaining cool and distant. She had even looked at one or two of them with barely concealed disgust.

Rackhar, for example, a mountain of a warmonger with the color and charm of ashes on ice, hadn't even been able to elicit a raised eyebrow from her. Also, his approach had been less an offer than a threat, spiced with insults. If she didn't want to fight for him, he would slay her on the battlefield or in an arena. She would be so puny that he wouldn't even have to do it himself, the least of his servants would suffice.

By the time the demonlord had finished his tirade and the angel had lacked any response, Rackhar had left again. N'Arahn had not regretted his swift departure.

Even Krehn, a schemer with much finer manners than the warmonger, had not been able to lure the battleangel out of her reserve. The respected demoness could actually have insisted on a one-on-one appointment, but she was so sure of her influence that she didn't care if anyone held her in lower esteem for joining the line of interested parties, to aides and impatient demonlords.

During her visit, she had greeted Veidja politely and then chatted casually with N'Arahn. Of course, she let some of the advantages of her lifestyle, which differed markedly from that of the lord of the fortress in terms of splendor and social participation, flow into the conversation, but she remained unobtrusive in her manner. Sure, that was her way of ensnaring, planting a seed and watching it sprout. But he had sensed that the warrior had remained suspicious.

She had eyed Krehn closely. Her flowing, colorful clothes, which both hid and flattered her voluptuous body. The claws on her hands, well-groomed but visibly too long and thick for simple fingernails. The short horns adorned with rings at her temples and the longer spikes poking through her clothing at her shoulders and elbows.

Although the demonduchess was not a particularly menacing presence and her attitude towards the angel was characterized by restraint and friendliness, Veidja seemed to consider her dangerous. Which, of course, she was right about.

Over the course of the visits, he had noticed that although Veidja tried to hide her curiosity or surprise, she was not entirely repulsed by the various figures who talked to her or N'Arahn. Still, she had always remained distant and cautious.

What, by blood and dirt, was different now? He almost gritted his teeth. Cautiously, the demonlord checked the shadows. Was the adjutant perhaps exerting a special influence? No, that wasn't it. He only used his energy to create the images. Perhaps some suggestion towards the angel, but nothing that would explain her reaction.

Just then, the curly-haired man showed a model of his mistress' fortress: white stone, green fabrics; N'Arahn remembered that those were the colours of the demonduchess, white and green.
Completely absorbed, Veidja looked at the pictures, tilting her head sideways as if she could listen to the demon better that way. And that smile again.

Why aren't you looking at me like that?

Hold on. That didn't sound like him. He sighed cautiously. No one was interested in him at the moment anyway, so they would probably miss it. Even though it gave him an unbidden painful tug, he continued to watch his angel's face without intervening.

The adjutant had stood up and bowed deeply to the angel. His voice matched his other features: cultivated, courteous, a little too enthusiastic for N'Arahn's taste. But Veidja's gaze followed him, almost a tad enraptured. She seemed to see only him and ignore everything else.