The unnatural slipperiness faded as she vanished into the dense, thorny undergrowth, the magic spent. She collapsed behind the trunk of a massive, gnarled tree, her body trembling with a violent cocktail of adrenaline and exhaustion. The cold night air was a balm on her skin, sharp with the clean scent of pine and damp earth, a world away from the den's suffocating stench. For a long moment, the only sounds were her own ragged, desperate gasps for air and the distant, fading shouts of the goblin tribe. She was still filthy, still weak, but she was free.
Seraphine's shimmering illusion appeared before her, her perfect face a mask of raw annoyance. For a split second, the professional smile was gone, replaced by a tight, genuine frustration that made her eyes sharp as glass shards. The escape wasn't part of the script. This chaotic, unproduced moment was a flaw in her broadcast.
Then, just as quickly, the mask snapped back into place. The smile returned, wider and more venomous than before. "Well," Seraphine purred, her voice dripping with manufactured amusement for the viewers. "That was… an unexpected plot twist! A thrilling escape from the jaws of certain degradation. A round of applause for our plucky little survivor, and a special thank you to the ever-generous Lord Kasian for sponsoring that delightfully chaotic moment. You see, Patrons? Anything can happen on *Exile's Ordeal*!"
Veridia barely heard her. She pushed herself up, leaning her back against the rough, abrasive bark of the tree. The meager Essence she'd absorbed from the goblins was already leaking away, the familiar, soul-deep chill of the curse seeping back into her bones. But her mind wasn't on the hunger. It was fixated on the phantom feeling of the Boon—the memory of that cool, greasy energy washing over her skin.
Her thoughts, once a chaotic scream of violation and despair, were now chillingly clear. The absolute bottom. The most profound, public, and multi-faceted humiliation she had ever endured had directly triggered a reward. A tool. A key. They hadn't saved her out of pity. They had paid for a better show. The degradation was the price, but the power was the prize. The submission to Gravemaw had been pathetic, but this… this chaotic, swarming, undignified assault was something else. It was ugly, artless, and utterly random. It was perfect for a Patron like Kasian.
She looked down at the crude goblin dagger still clutched in her hand, its rusted edge stained with filth. It was a tool for a scavenger, a weapon for a mere survivor. With a sneer of pure, liberating contempt, she hurled it into a murky puddle. It landed with a soft, pathetic splash and disappeared into the muck. She was done with survival.
***
The sun rose, casting long, grey shadows through the forest. Veridia moved with a new purpose, her eyes scanning the terrain not for shelter or safety, but for opportunity. The gnawing hunger was a constant companion, but it was no longer her master. It was a deadline, a motivator for the performance to come.
She spotted it near a cluster of jagged rocks—a lone Glass-Hide Boar, its crystalline hide glinting in the morning light. It was massive, a walking fortress of muscle and razor-sharp plates, powerful enough to provide a substantial meal. The Veridia of yesterday would have seen a terrifying, high-risk meal, a necessary gamble to reset the clock on her curse.
The Veridia of today saw it with the cold, appraising eye of a showrunner. A brutish fight. A simple, artless struggle of claw against crystal. There was no nuance, no potential for the kind of exquisite, emotionally resonant spectacle that would make Patrons like Matron Vesperia open their coffers. *Kasian might appreciate the gore,* she thought, a flicker of a producer's calculation in her mind, *but it's a one-note performance. It lacks tragedy, it lacks irony. It's just… content. And content is for lesser shows.*
She turned away from the beast without a second thought, conserving what little energy she had. Random wandering was inefficient. She needed a stage, not just a hunting ground. Finding a small, sluggish creek, she made a calculated decision. Waterways were the arteries of this world. Follow them, and you find life. Not just beasts, but settlements, trade, conflict. You find better actors.
Seraphine's voice echoed in her ear, dripping with condescension. "It seems our fallen princess is fresh out of ideas, Patrons. Is she looking for a drink, or just a dramatic place to drown herself? Place your wagers now!"
Veridia ignored her, a faint, knowing smirk touching her lips. Let the audience think she was lost. Let Seraphine build a narrative of her pathetic, aimless despair. The greater their surprise, the higher the ratings would spike when the curtain finally rose on her next act.
***
She followed the river for hours as it widened, its banks growing rockier. The trees began to change, their bark a pale, almost white color, their branches twisted into strange, elegant shapes she hadn't seen before. The air grew thinner, cleaner. It was here she found the first sign.
Standing near the water's edge was a totem. It was nothing like the crude, mud-and-bone constructions of Orcs or goblins. This was carved from the same pale wood as the trees, polished smooth by wind and time. Strange, iridescent feathers were tied to it with what looked like woven reeds, and its surface was etched with elegant, swirling patterns that looked less like warnings and more like musical staves. It was the work of a sophisticated, almost artistic, culture.
As she stepped closer, running a hand over the smooth, cool wood, a sound drifted toward her on the wind. It was a song. Not a guttural war chant or a bestial howl, but a melody. It was complex and layered, a chorus of voices rising and falling in a harmony that was both beautiful and deeply, profoundly alien. The sound seemed to shimmer in the air, haunting and impossibly sad, a tapestry of organized sorrow that was more artful than any dirge she had ever heard in the Court.
Veridia stood frozen, listening. More totems lined the riverbank ahead, silent sentinels marking a path. The song grew louder, drawing her forward. Her expression was not one of fear, but of intense, predatory focus. This was not the mindless chaos that appealed to Kasian. This was something else. This was tragedy. This was beauty. This was a performance worthy of Vesperia's discerning eye. She had found it. Not a meal. Not a monster. She had found a stage.
*Now… that's a performance.*