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Fire consumed Dugan of Valukaa's hazel eyes. The fire within him surged to the surface and filled his irises whenever wrath gripped him. Wrath had been a constant accomplice of late. A sin, but then Dugan was a demon.

'Where are you, little bird?' Dugan scanned the factory. Filled with an accumulation of fossilised machinery. Caked in dust so heavy that it was impossible to tell rust from solid metal. It seemed…familiar. Like a place he once held dear, now forgotten. It mattered little, he'd forgotten more places than he cared to count. 'A wonderful cage you've chosen for yourself.'

A speck of white glinted in the corner of his eye. Dugan spun, his heavy boots kicking up a layer of dust that hung in the air, catching the fading sunlight and scattering it.

'The cage is yours, demon.' His target's voice reverberated off the rusted walls; it seemed to make them shake. Be not afraid. That was the term, wasn't it? Apt, but there was no twisting in his stomach. No flinching nerves or unsteady heart. Only the burning heat behind his eyes and an instinct to kill.

The angel hovered above him. White wings spread, twice as long as he was tall. Dugan's muscular frame hid beneath his heavy clothing, but his target dwarfed him, carved like a marble monolith. All for show, of course. For a genetically modified being like the angel, actual muscle size mattered little.

What a vain angel.

The angel landed a few paces from Dugan, and he could close the distance before the target could react, rip out his throat, and—no. Dugan strained against his instincts; death would have to wait.

'Why do you pursue me, demon? Would you break the truce between us? Or are you acting alone?' The angel's voice was calm, bored even. No doubt to him, Dugan was no threat at all. Dugan suppressed the urge to laugh. A vain, inexperienced angel. Good.

Speaking was never his forte—violence was—but he would avoid it if possible.

'I mean you no harm,' the words tasted foul, 'I only want information.'

The angel's face twisted into a snarl. It kicked off the factory floor, fist cocked like a battering ram.

No avoiding violence, then? Fine.

Dugan braced for impact, turning to face the angel side-on. In a split second, the angel was upon him, fist hurtling toward his face. Dugan stepped out of the way and grabbed the angel by his throat, slamming him into the stone floor with enough force to crack it. Dust billowed up in a choking shroud, flash-lit orange by the furnace in Dugan's eyes.

In the cloud, a thousand screaming faces. Calling his name, begging him to stop. He shook the image from his mind. This was no time for reminiscing.

Silver flashed in the dust: a blade. Dugan leapt back, but not before the dagger cut a line across his cheek. The angel flapped his wings once, dissipating the dust cloud. Dugan gritted his teeth; underestimating his opponent was a bad habit. But it was so hard to break when it was so often true.

Dugan flicked his wrist, and Amanarath materialised in his hand. A black sword that pulsed with red symbols—a language only the dead Gods knew—a wave of heat warped the surrounding air. The angel glanced at it, pupils dilating and face paling.

'You're supposed to be dead, Lord of Ash.'

'I was.'