The battlefield was already dead when Caera arrived.
Not dying—dead. The kind of stillness that came only after violence had exhausted itself. Smoke rose in thin, reluctant strands from scorched earth, curling upward like souls unsure whether to ascend or flee.
The ground was cracked and blackened, veins of molten stone cooling into jagged scars that glowed faintly in the dim light.
Demonic blood stained everything.
It was thicker than human blood, darker, carrying a metallic tang that clung to the air and coated the tongue. Caera tasted it with every breath. She stood at the edge of the ruin, cloak snapping softly in the heated wind, eyes scanning for movement.
Nothing stirred.
That alone unsettled her.
Demon incursions never ended cleanly. They fled, regrouped, or turned on one another—but they did not simply stop. Something had gone wrong here. Or something had finished what she had not yet begun.
She stepped forward.
Her boots sank slightly into softened ground, pulling free with a faint, obscene sound. Broken weapons littered the field—curved infernal blades, shattered talons, fragments of armor etched with sigils of ancient houses long since fallen into corruption.
She recognized some of the markings.
High bloodlines.
This had not been a skirmish. It had been a purge.
Caera slowed.
Her instincts whispered—not danger, but attention. The sensation of being watched did not press against her like a threat. It hovered instead, cautious and strained, like a held breath.
She followed it.
The battlefield dipped toward a shallow crater at its center, formed by a single devastating impact. Whatever had struck here had done so with intent. At the crater's edge, scorched wings lay folded at unnatural angles, their membranes torn and burned.
A demon lay there.
Alive.
Barely.
Caera's hand went to her blade without thought.
He was sprawled against the broken stone, one knee twisted wrong, one arm pinned beneath his body. One of his horns had shattered at the base, leaving a jagged stump crusted with drying blood. His wings—once vast, judging by the remains—were shredded beyond repair.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.
She approached silently.
At ten paces, his eyes snapped open.
They were not the feral, glowing red she expected. They were dark—too dark—ringed with a faint, dull ember that flickered weakly. Pain sharpened his gaze, but beneath it was something else.
Awareness.
He tried to move.
Failed.
A sound tore from his throat—not a roar, not a curse, but a broken exhale that might once have been pride.
Caera stopped two paces away and drew her blade.
Light bled along its edge, reflecting off the demon's blood-slick skin. He flinched—not from the weapon, but from the glow.
"Don't," he rasped.
The word scraped raw from him, barely audible.
Caera tilted her head slightly.
"You're alive," she said. Her voice held no surprise. "That was your first mistake."
He swallowed hard. "I… I know who you are."
She raised the blade higher.
"Then you know what comes next."
The demon laughed weakly—a fractured sound that dissolved into a cough. Dark blood spilled from his mouth. "Yes," he said. "That's why I'm asking."
She paused.
"Asking what."
He forced himself to meet her gaze, pain sharpening into something almost lucid. "To live."
The word hung between them, absurd and fragile.
Caera studied him.
He was young—for a demon of high descent. His features, though marred by injury, bore the sharp, refined structure of an old bloodline. Sigils etched into his skin marked him as something claimed—not by the Outer Dark, but by demonic hierarchy. A descendant of a lord, perhaps even a favored one.
Which meant his presence here was no accident.
"Your kind doesn't beg," she said.
His lips curved faintly. "My kind doesn't usually lose."
She took another step closer, blade now close enough that its light traced the edge of his throat. "You lost."
"Yes," he said quietly. "And I learned."
That earned her attention.
"Learned what."
"That power doesn't care about lineage," he replied. "And that you are death walking in the shape of a girl."
The words were not flattery. They were observation.
Caera felt nothing.
"You'll die either way," she said. "Now—or later."
"Later," he said immediately. "Later is all I'm asking for."
She frowned—not in doubt, but irritation.
"Why."
His breath shuddered. For a moment, she thought he might finally plead—might beg for mercy, redemption, forgiveness. Mortals did that. Even some demons did.
Instead, he said, "Because I want to see how the war ends."
Something in his tone caught.
Not hope.
Not fear.
Curiosity.
"You won't," Caera said. "The war doesn't end. It only consumes."
"Then let it consume me usefully," he said. "Chain me. Command me. Throw me at your enemies. I don't care."
Her blade pressed lightly into his skin, drawing a thin line of blood.
"Why should I trust you."
"You shouldn't," he answered without hesitation. "But you don't need to."
She waited.
"I'm not asking to be free," he continued. "I'm asking to be owned."
The word settled heavily between them.
Caera's grip tightened.
"You're a demon," she said. "You'll betray me the moment it suits you."
He smiled—a tired, crooked thing. "Probably."
She should have killed him then.
Everything in her training, her instincts, her hatred screamed that this was a mistake waiting to fester. Demons were not allies. They were opportunists, liars, predators who wore loyalty like a costume.
And yet.
He was broken.
Not theatrically. Not strategically. His injuries were too severe, too genuine. He was dying slowly, painfully, and he knew it. There was no manipulation in his posture—only defiance in refusing to beg prettily.
"What's your name," she asked.
His eyes widened a fraction. "Viehl."
The name resonated faintly, tugging at something old and dangerous in her awareness. A lineage whispered of in half-burned records. A demon lord's house known for survival at any cost.
Figures.
"You'll live," Caera said.
Hope flared—bright, naked, and immediate.
"Until I no longer need you," she continued. "Then I'll kill you myself."
The hope didn't fade.
It settled.
Viehl exhaled, a sound somewhere between relief and reverence. "That's fair."
She turned away, already dismissing him.
"Try to escape," she said coldly, "and I'll erase you before you finish your first step."
"I won't," he replied.
She glanced back.
"Why."
"Because you didn't spare me," he said softly. "You claimed me."
Something twisted in his gaze—something dangerous.
Caera did not respond.
She bound him in light-forged chains moments later, the magic burning against his skin, anchoring his life to her will. He cried out once—more in sensation than pain—and then fell silent, panting.
As she walked away, dragging him across the ruined battlefield, she did not look back.
She did not see the way he watched her.
Not with gratitude.
Not with lust.
But with the intensity of a man who had just found the axis around which his existence would turn.
Above them, the sky burned on.
And somewhere, deep within the fractures of fate, something smiled.