[ He lets go, he steps back; he pulls his own sword, fired and folded steel, well made but perfectly mundane, and with Netzach's intervention, the heavenly blade hits at an angle, slips down Midnight's edge and lands with a crash into the stone underneath them.

Midnight smiles, wide and sharklike, and readjusts his grip on his sword. He wants blood. He understands that there's no separating himself from this, or telling himself that he's better than his base desires. It smells like food, it tastes sweet; to drink from others is a part of him, something he'd have to strip from himself like pulling the veins from a shelled fin. Midnight lies well, but he never lies unless he has to. What he does best is tell the truth, then let others lie for him. ]

Softening the blow, darling. You only need hit the mortal strike. Let me have the rest. I love him well enough for that.

[ Which is a mad thing to say. Good. He hasn't been the demon king in a long time. He loved it once. The power, the madness. He lunges again, the sparks that jump from the tip of his sword, the stone at his feet, burst to flame, the only boon left to a runaway demon. When he slices up, aiming to cut Kaveh from stomach to throat, the stroke is well-practiced, precise, beautiful. He is on a path of war, and he intends to walk it well. ]