Page 23 of Demon Lord's Proposal

Sage nods, but I can see the questions burning in her eyes. As she turns to leave, her hand brushes against mine, sending a jolt through my body. I watch her go, my emotions in turmoil.

Alone in my office, I slump into my chair, my head in my hands. What am I doing? I'm a demon lord, for hell's sake. I've spent centuries building my power, my influence. I can't let these... feelings for Sage jeopardize everything I've worked for.

But even as I think it, I know it's too late. The protective surge I felt earlier, the way my heart races when she's near... I'm in deeper than I ever intended to be.

14

SAGE

Iwipe down the last glass and set it on the rack with a soft clink. The bar is finally empty, and the silence feels almost oppressive after the cacophony of the night. My arms ache from mixing countless drinks, and my feet throb in protest of the hours spent standing.

"Another night down," I mutter to myself, surveying the dim interior.

The usually vibrant establishment now seems eerie in its stillness. Shadows loom in corners where raucous laughter had echoed just hours before. The faint scent of brimstone and spilled alcohol lingers in the air, a reminder of the diverse clientele we serve.

I grab my bag from behind the bar and head towards the back exit. As I push open the heavy door, the cool air of the alley hits my face, a welcome respite from the stuffy bar.

Something feels... off.

I pause, one foot over the threshold, and scan the narrow passage. The dim light from a single flickering lamp casts long shadows across the uneven cobblestones. Empty crates and barrels line the walls, creating perfect hiding spots for any manner of creature.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My hexeblood senses, honed by months in this dangerous realm, scream a warning. I take a cautious step forward, every muscle tense.

A whisper of movement to my left is my only warning.

I whirl, barely avoiding the slash of a wicked-looking blade. My attacker emerges from the shadows, a lithe figure clad in dark leather. Their face is obscured by a mask, but I can feel the intensity of their gaze.

"What the–" I start to say, but I'm cut off as they lunge again.

Time seems to slow. I watch the blade arc towards me, my mind racing. In that split second, something deep within me surges to life. Power courses through my veins, a gift from my hexeblood heritage that I'm only beginning to understand.

I twist, the knife missing me by a hair's breadth. The assassin's momentum carries them past me, and I take the opportunity to put some distance between us.

"Who sent you?" I demand, my voice steadier than I feel.

They don't respond, instead readying for another attack. I reach into my pocket, fingers closing around a small vial. Deus's words echo in my mind: "Always be prepared, especially when you think you're safe."

As the assassin charges, I uncork the vial and fling its contents at their face. The liquid ignites on contact with the air, creating a brilliant flash of light. My attacker recoils, momentarily blinded.

I use the distraction to look for a weapon, anything I can use to defend myself. My eyes land on a broken bottle near one of the crates. I lunge for it, snatching it up just as the assassin recovers.

We circle each other, the tension palpable. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, but beneath the fear, there's a thrill of excitement. This is what I've been training for.

The assassin strikes first, a flurry of quick jabs that I barely manage to parry with my makeshift weapon. The sound of glass against metal rings out in the quiet alley. I give ground, letting them push me back towards the bar's wall.

Just as my back hits the rough bricks, I drop low and sweep my leg out. The move catches them off guard, and they stumble. I press my advantage, slashing with the broken bottle. They hiss in pain as it catches their arm, drawing blood.

"Not so fun when your target fights back, is it?" I taunt, a surge of confidence flowing through me.

They respond with a growl, redoubling their efforts. We trade blows, a deadly dance in the narrow alley. I can feel my body moving almost of its own accord to avoid their attacks.

But I know I can't keep this up forever. I need to end this, and fast.

An idea forms in my mind, born from countless hours of alchemical experimentation. I feint left, then dart right, putting some space between us. My free hand dips into my bag, fingers closing around various vials and pouches.

"Let's see how you handle this," I mutter, quickly mixing ingredients in my palm.

The assassin charges, blade glinting in the dim light. I wait until the last second, then throw the mixture at their feet. It reacts instantly with the moisture in the air, creating a thick, adhesive foam that expands rapidly.

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