The training grounds of the Demon Palace were not designed for humans in anyway.
Obsidian pillars rose from cracked stone, jagged like the teeth of some ancient beast. The ground was scarred with burns, gouges, and dried patches of blood from battles long past. Training rings of flame encircled each arena, blazing brighter whenever a challenger stepped within. The scent of ash and sweat lingered in the air.
It was here that Ethan was dragged, his wrists freed but his arms still held by two towering guards. His steps faltered when he saw the waiting figure in the center of the largest ring.
Morgana.
She was the very image of a warrior princess: tall, commanding, her body wrapped in blackened armor trimmed in crimson. Her hair was braided tightly down her back, the braid long enough to brush the curve of her waist. Golden eyes—predatory and unblinking—swept across the assembled soldiers before locking on him.
Resting on her shoulder was a massive greatsword, its blade etched with runes that pulsed with faint heat. Even from across the arena, Ethan could feel its power.
"This," Morgana announced, her voice carrying like the crack of thunder, "is the mortal my sister spares?"
The soldiers roared with laughter.
Ethan swallowed, his knees already weak. "Hi. Ethan. Uh… professional coward. Please don't kill me?"
The laughter grew. Morgana did not laugh. She stepped forward, the ground crunching beneath her armored boots.
"You mock this court with your weakness," she said. "A fragile, trembling mortal dares sit beneath my sister's protection? If you would remain here, prove you are more than a jest."
Ethan's voice cracked. "Prove? As in… fight? Because, uh, just so you know, my combat record is, uh… zero and infinite losses. I once lost to a goose."
The soldiers howled, but Morgana's expression didn't flicker. She lifted her sword and pointed the glowing tip at his chest.
"Then let us see if a goose can survive the flame."
The guards shoved him forward into the arena angrily. The moment his foot touched the cracked stone, the flames surrounding the ring roared to life, encircling him in fire. Heat pressed down on his skin, prickling sweat instantly across his brow.
A guard shoved a wooden practice sword into his hands. It was old, splintered, and far too heavy for him. He fumbled to hold it upright.
Morgana raised her greatsword with terrifying ease. "Defend yourself, mortal."
Ethan squeaked. "Defend myself? Against you? That's like asking a worm to duel an eagle!"
"Begin," she commanded, and lunged.
The world blurred.
Ethan shrieked and stumbled sideways, pure panic driving his legs. The tip of her sword slammed into the stone where he'd been standing, splitting the rock into glowing fragments. Sparks exploded around him.
He fell flat on his face.
The soldiers roared with laughter again, jeering from the sidelines. "Pathetic!" "End him quickly!"
Morgana sneered, dragging her blade free. "You cannot even stand."
Ethan scrambled backward on his elbows, holding the wooden sword in front of him like a holy relic. "I don't want to fight you!"
"Then you will die."
She came at him again, a sweeping arc that would have cut a lesser demon in two. Ethan panicked, ducking lower than he thought possible. The blade howled overhead, the heat singeing his hair as it passed. The momentum carried the weapon into a nearby pillar, cracking it clean down the middle.
The soldiers gasped.
Ethan blinked. "…Did I just dodge that?"
"Do not flatter yourself," Morgana snapped, yanking the blade free in a shower of sparks.
She advanced again, relentless. Ethan scrambled to his feet, raising his splintered weapon. His hands were slick with sweat, his arms trembling. He swung wildly in pure desperation—no technique, no aim, just survival instinct.
And somehow, impossibly, the broken edge of his practice sword struck the cross-guard of her greatsword at just the right angle. The impact jarred her stance, shifting her balance for a heartbeat.
The soldiers fell silent.
Morgana froze, golden eyes narrowing. Slowly, she stepped back and adjusted her grip. "Interesting."
Ethan gaped. "That was—! That was not skill, that was dumb luck!"
"You survived three strikes of my blade." Morgana's voice was sharp as steel. "Even demons fall in two."
Ethan wanted to protest, to shout that it had been a mistake, but the words died in his throat. The soldiers were staring at him differently now—not with amusement, but with… curiosity.
Morgana lowered her weapon slightly, though her gaze remained fierce. "You are weak. Clumsy. Laughable. Yet…" She tilted her head, studying him as though he were a puzzle. "…unpredictable. And unpredictability can be dangerous."
Ethan wheezed, barely able to stand. "So… does that mean… you're not going to kill me?"
"Not today," she said flatly.
She turned sharply, cape swirling as she addressed the guards. "Take him back. I will observe him further."
The soldiers muttered among themselves as Ethan was dragged out of the ring, too exhausted even to complain. He could only groan, "Why do I keep getting promoted from 'dead man walking' to 'interesting experiment'?"
Above, on a balcony half-hidden by shadow, Lilith watched silently. Her crimson eyes followed the mortal as he was hauled away, but lingered on Morgana. The faintest crease touched her brow at the way her sister's gaze had softened—if only for a second.
And Lilith thought, This mortal is becoming a problem.