A party for three

Azrael's eyelids fluttered, but his vision remained blurred and disoriented. The flickering glow of dimly lit candles overwhelmed his senses, transforming them into blinding beacons of light.

His head throbbed with a dull ache, his body ached from unknown exertions, and an overwhelming sense of disorientation gripped him. As consciousness slowly returned, he became aware of the restraints that tightly bound his hands, hindering his movements.

Struggling to make sense of his surroundings, Azrael scanned the room, his gaze fixating on the two figures standing before him engaged in hushed conversation. Their words, muffled and distant, began to penetrate his consciousness.

"What do you think? Should we sell it to the blacksmith?" one of the men proposed, his voice carrying a hint of calculation.

"Perhaps the sword, but I doubt the old man will offer a fair price for the mask," the other man replied, his tone filled with skepticism.

"Agreed. Once we reach the camp, the soldiers will surely provide us with a more favorable deal," the first man suggested, shifting his attention to Azrael, who met their gaze with bleary eyes struggling to focus.

"Ah, it appears our guest is finally awake," the man declared, gripping Azrael's face and forcing his cheeks together, scrutinizing his expression.

"Such lifeless eyes," he commented, a hint of amusement coloring his words.

"What is the meaning of this?" Azrael mumbled, his voice tinged with a mixture of confusion and defiance.

"Allow me to introduce myself, masked merchant. I am Kraven, and this is my associate, Gorgan," Kraven stated, moving toward the wall adorned with an array of weapons, his fingers gliding over them.

"You see, it's quite simple. Answer our questions truthfully, and you shall remain unharmed. But deviate from the truth, and we might have to resort to some... persuasion," Kraven explained, seizing a small knife from the wall, his intentions ominously clear.

"Ah, so I am to be subjected to torture? How distasteful," Azrael retorted, his voice laced with a blend of defiance and dry humor.

"You appear devoid of fear, but don't worry. By the time we are finished, we will etch it into those emotionless eyes of yours," Kraven sneered, relishing the prospect.

"Sounds like quite the party, truly it does. However, I regret to inform you that I must depart," Azrael calmly remarked, seizing the chain that bound him and wrapping it around his hand, preparing to exert a sudden burst of strength to break free.

Azrael strained against the unyielding chains, exerting every ounce of his strength, but they held firm, refusing to budge.

"Those chains are specially designed to suppress and drain ki completely, so don't even bother," Kraven's voice trailed off as a slight crack appeared on the wall to which the chain was anchored. Despite Azrael's relentless efforts, the structure remained unbroken.

"Well, well, you possess considerable physical strength as well. Impressive. However, the chain carries a weakening enchantment, so it's quite an achievement that you managed to achieve even that much. We recognize your power and took measures to restrict you accordingly," Kraven remarked, a glimmer of reluctant admiration in his voice.

"Enough small talk. Let us commence," Gorgan interjected, striding purposefully toward Azrael.

"What were your intentions within the empire?" Gorgan inquired, his tone laced with a mixture of curiosity and menace.

"Fuck you," Azrael defiantly replied, unyielding in the face of their interrogation.

"Wrong answer," Gorgan sneered, his fist charged with ki as it connected forcefully with Azrael's face, causing blood to spray and Azrael to recoil in pain.

"Where are the other demons with whom you collaborate?" Gorgan demanded, his gaze piercing through Azrael's battered form.

"You're remarkably ugly, did you know that?" Azrael retorted through a bloody mouth, his defiance unwavering.

"Wrong answer," Gorgan growled, his fist striking Azrael once again with devastating force, rendering him unconscious and bringing a temporary end to their cruel interrogation.

Azrael jolted awake, his shirtless body drenched in icy water that sent shivers down his spine.

"No time for sleep now, we're just getting started. The knife comes next," Gorgon declared, a sadistic glint in his eyes.

"What are the demons' plans within the empire?" Gorgon demanded, his voice laced with a mix of curiosity and malice.

"Are you dense? Why would I have knowledge of their plans?" Azrael retorted, his voice tinged with defiance.

Azrael grimaced in agony as the knife sliced through his flesh, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake. The excruciating pain was swiftly followed by a devastating blow to his gut, leaving him gasping for precious breath.

"Alright, let's try this again," Gorgon sneered, preparing to continue the relentless cycle of interrogation and torment.

Ten hours had passed since the torture began, and Azrael's body bore the marks of relentless brutality. His skin was now marred with countless lacerations, his face a mask of blood and suffering. The floor beneath him became a macabre canvas, a mingling pool of his own blood and the water used to further torment him.

"Are there other demons lurking within the empire?" Gorgon pressed, his tone dripping with sadistic anticipation.

"I...don't...know," Azrael managed to mumble through his weakened state.

"Wrong answer," Gorgon coldly responded.

Azrael's anguished cry reverberated through the room as the blade met his flesh once again, accompanied by a bone-crushing punch to his already battered ribs.

Ava's urgent voice reverberated in Azrael's mind once again, pleading with him to summon her.

"Enough of this foolishness. Summon me immediately," she exclaimed, her tone filled with urgency.

"I sense the presence of strong people outside, I know you do to. If i summon you now, you'll only end up captured. We must make a better plan," Azrael replied silently, his thoughts directed towards Ava.

Gorgon's voice cut through the air, devoid of mercy or compassion. "Tell us what we want to know. You're only prolonging your own suffering. We'll resort to stabbing now."

Azrael's anguished screams filled the room as the relentless assault of the knife continued, each piercing thrust inflicting fresh wounds. The scent of his own blood saturated the air, a grim reminder of his torment.

As the torture persisted, Azrael's pain intensified, his body growing weary and his mind drifting back to the days of yore, a stark contrast to the horrifying reality that engulfed him now, or was it?

Did this god ever know happiness?...