002 | Within the Demonic Angel's Grasp

Arlo woke with a painful gasp. Opening his eyes, he was greeted by a domed glass ceiling displaying a night sky full of clear, starry brilliance. With each breath, the pain throughout his body faded.

"You're awake."

The voice was deep, resonant, and unfamiliar, causing Arlo to jerk his head sideways. He faced a man standing in the corner of the room amidst flickering silver flames.

His large wings folded gracefully behind his back, while two horns protruded from the sides of his head. His fiery red hair matched his sharp gaze fixed upon Arlo. Yet, his lips, as dark as night, formed a gentle smile.

At first glance, Arlo knew he wasn't human. But he wasn't like the strange creatures crafted by the witches of Valorthorn either. He seemed... a fusion of angel and demon.

As the entity approached, the silver flames flickering around the room quivered, almost as if they bowed to him. Or perhaps, Arlo thought, they were afraid of him.

The angel's touch felt like ice as he stroked Arlo's face. "You're dead, Arlo," he informed softly, as gently as his deep, weighty voice allowed. "From now on, you'll be a perfect companion for me."

Arlo's eyebrows lifted. He sat up, feeling his elbow resting on something as hard as granite yet as smooth as lizard skin. "Companion?" he repeated. "A companion in doing what?"

The demon's eyes blinked slowly, a hint of amusement coloring his moonlit-red gaze. "You must be confused," he said with an understanding tone that was starting to feel poisonous. "My name is Azathan. I am descended from the strongest angel and demon, tasked by the gods to oversee birth and death. Right now, you are in my domain, in Hell."

The way Azathan spoke of 'Hell' so gently and affectionately made Arlo suspect that to this demonic angel, this terrifying place was no different from home.

"We don't need to waste time," Azathan continued. His index finger moved gently on the back of Arlo's hand, tracing a shimmering silver pattern. "You will be my perfect companion."

Arlo flinched. He quickly withdrew his hand and hid it behind his other hand. "No!" he refused firmly. "I don't want to be your companion! I don't want to work with you! I just want to die peacefully!"

The flames around them flickered. Anger and frustration flashed in Azathan's eyes, as beautiful as gemstones. "I," he emphasized. "Offer you. Power. And honor. Without limits. How dare you refuse this offer, Arlo?"

"Yes, I refuse it!" Arlo exclaimed loudly. "Now, remove whatever magic pattern you've drawn on my hand!"

The demonic angel remained unmoved. "That cannot be undone," he said, as cold as his own body. Wings on his back spread and curved, almost enclosing them both within. "Once I bestow upon you the power of the gods, it will forever reside within your body."

He continued, "Now, your choices are only two. Work with me, or perish at my hands. For I will not let the Nameless One steal the power of the gods."

Arlo chuckled. Despite his trembling hands, he stood facing Azathan with a resolute stance, trying to suppress his fear even as the demon loomed before him. "I am already dead," he whispered. "I am already dead, so you cannot kill me again. And from the beginning, I never agreed to accept that power. So, I am not stealing."

"One thing," Azathan interjected. His lips smiled, revealing his teeth made of long, sharp fangs. "I can make you feel death once more."

Moments ago, the angel stood before Arlo. In an instant, he was flying beneath the dome. Two swords, long and sharp, tightly gripped in both hands.

Arlo rolled sideways as Azathan hurled one sword towards him. It narrowly missed, cracking the granite floor.

"Let's see how long you can stick to your decision, Arlo." Azathan smiled.