The demoness, her figure covered in wounds and bruises, glared at Artanos. He was a strange being, a creature with some contradictions, with bluish wings almost like the clear sky and eyes like the ancient forests of the elves. Yet, he moved with the grace of a predator, his gaze sharp and unwavering.
"Your words are like the whispers of the wind," she spat, her voice a rasping echo of the underworld. "They mean nothing."
Artanos merely tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Then perhaps you should listen more closely," he said, his voice a melodic whisper. "For I have seen things you could never comprehend."
He spread his wings, a canvas of moonlight and starlight, the air humming with the power that pulsed within him. "Your master is afraid."
The demoness bristled. "Afraid?" she scoffed, her voice rising in pitch. "He has no fear. He is the master of pain, the embodiment of agony."