I could taste the tang of iron upon my teeth; a bitter, familiar taste. I swallowed it as if it were water and pushed the pain inward, rising upon my blade as though it were a crutch.

"Oh, it can still stand?" Zaltrea's tone bordered on mocking, but she stepped back out of range of my sword with an easy grace that was not lost upon me. "Pity." She held up her hands to show off their lack of any obvious damage or perhaps the dagger-like edge of ebon nails. "You're so much more useful alive than dead, you know."

"Why...won't...you...die!" The marble beneath my feet trembled with the force of my shout, eyes widening in disbelief. It was all I could do to keep my sanity. "You're a plague...Taking and taking...When does it end?"

She laughed at me then, a cold sneer laced with an almost lighthearted amusement. The demoness was not unfamiliar with the 'spectacle'—the fighting, the monologues and all that came with it—having had performed this waltz of death with countless paladins before I.

"Oh, don't be such a baby," Zaltrea replied airily. "I must say, you' shown some...Spunk, yes? You have truly exceeded my expectations and then some." A roiling chuckle nearly escaped her lips at the sight of my confused brow, "I've watched you grow from a little piglet—sewing the seeds of your misfortune with a delicate hand—into such a noble thing." Zaltrea feigned disappointment with a shrug, "But you're just too slow."

The sword in my hands suddenly felt as heavy as lead and I dropped it clanging onto the floor. My knees buckled beneath me, and I fell hard onto my side, feeling the roughness of the stone through the rent shell of my armor. A once cacophonous laughter fell silent, a twinge of concern filling Zaltrea's face. In all my years of hunting the demoness—who appeared all too human, on most accounts— never had her mask of insincerity slipped so brazenly; a crack in the callous façade. "Human? Such weakness is...unbecoming. I demand that you rise, now."

Zaltrea cautiously approached, one step at a time, the sandal-clad toes of her footfalls sounding like distant thunder. A soft shadow overtook my deflated form and the usual chill of her infernal aura faltered. Black, manicured digits traced along my pallid cheeks, etching the contours of my jawline with gentle strokes. "Come now, little piglet. Do you really want to end like this?" Even as my vision faded, the worry in Zaltrea's voice was becoming increasingly apparent, "Do you really want to die?"

"No," I whispered, and the words came unbidden. Death had tempted me on far too many occasions in my pursuit of vengeance, but never had I been so close to heeding its beckon.

"Excellent. Then breathe, boy. Do not think me so cruel to throw away a plaything so precious; I've made you who you are, after all. The death of your parents and friends. All my doing. Like a puppet you've danced until—you stopped being my marionette. You've cut your strings and surpassed my expectations; the vitriol you feel sustains me. Never forget that I gave you your righteous purpose. Such hate, such strength..." Slender fingers moved to the hem of my torn cloak, "and this is how you repay me? You fall apart like a broken doll?"

"I'll kill you," I gasped, struggling to push myself up into a sitting position. The muscles of my arms were shaking, legs trembling, whole body quaking. I leaned against a limestone wall of the basilica, scarcely sustained by my lust for revenge and the cloying aroma of Zaltrea's honeyed scent. The fact that she smelled so good—I despised the weakness of my flesh and supplied my nemesis with another emotion to feed upon.

"That's it! Your rage, your hatred—It's so pure!" Zaltrea's voice rose in excitement, like an addict fixated upon their vice. "My perfect little human, my sweet boy. From countless failures I've finally created my magnum opus: you!"

Her fingers grasped my chin, and she pulled my head back, forcing me to look up into her amethyst orbs. The demoness leaned down until our faces were inches apart, gilded locks brushing against my skin. In all of our previous encounters, I'd fallen just shy of foiling Zaltrea's contrived schemes. Our feud raged beyond the simple dichotomy of holy warrior and ruinous demon, born of childhood trauma and unanswered vendettas. Our very souls clashed with each crossing, and as Zaltrea would inform, this had been entirely by design.

"You're insane, creature." My voice was a rasping whisper, barely audible above the pounding of my heart, yet still is rang true. "What do you know of love?"

Zaltrea snorted derisively at the jab. "Love? What do I know of love? Tell me, what do you know of it? An orphan boy, raised of the cloth with nothing but his piety and a burning hatred for a vile demoness; the source of all his pain. You've not known a lick of love for far too long; I've made sure of that. So allow my to elucidate. In this world, we demons are seldom loved by anyone. How could a savage monster such as I ever be loved in a genuine sense? I've had worshippers, sycophants and cultists, but...Lovers? Friends? Confidants? I..." Zaltrea's voice fell to an uncharacteristically somber tone. In all our years of this bloody game of cat-and-mouse, never had I seen the demoness behave in such a manner; filled with yearning. Sensing this, Zaltrea quickly collected herself, pressing even closer as she continued; the brush of her lips was like venom to the soul. "I've stoked passion in you, piglet, and it's proven to be enough. In fact, more than I could've ever hoped for. Hatred and love all stem from the same root: passion. Like a sculptor, your attachment to me has been my clay. Your zeal, your piety...the same qualities that I admire are the exact reason why someone like you could never love me. Not naturally, at least. You're so ripe with hatred that you'll burst, but to me, it's nothing but potential! Potential to be sculpted into true, refined love. Please, never stop hating me! That's love, can't you see?" I'd never thought a demon to cry, yet manic tears of joy