The Essence from the goblin tribe was a greasy film coating the inside of her soul. It was a rancid, unsatisfying meal that did little more than mute the sharpest edges of the curse's hunger, replacing it with a low, churning nausea. It was the taste of desperation, and it was foul. Hidden in a thicket of thorns and clinging mist, Veridia leaned against the damp earth, the chill seeping into her bones. The brief, oily energy was already leaking away, the familiar hollowness returning to her core like a tide going out, leaving only cold, wet sand behind.
Seraphine's shimmering form coalesced in the fog, her gown of starlight a vulgar contrast to the grime. "Slumming it with the vermin, are we, sister?" she chirped, her voice a perfectly polished weapon. "I must say, the Patrons found your little… group activity to be delightfully squalid. A real ratings grabber in the lower-caste markets. But the quality of your sustenance is frankly embarrassing. You look positively ill."
Veridia ignored her, focusing on the ache. Survival was a chore, but this felt like a punishment within a punishment. She needed a real source. Something potent. Something clean. Something that didn't leave her feeling more violated than nourished.
Then, a sound cut through the morning mist. It was not the howl of a beast or the guttural chant of an Orc. It was a song, a chorus of sharp, feminine voices that sliced through the air. The melody was dissonant yet beautiful, a harmony woven from threads of sorrow and undisguised hunger. It didn't just enter her ears; it vibrated in her bones, promising power and pain in equal measure, an intoxicating cocktail that resonated with the deepest parts of her succubus nature. It was a lure too perfect to be natural.
Her pride, the last unblemished relic of her former life, screamed at her. *This is a trap. You are Princess Veridia Vex, not some witless animal to be drawn in by a siren's call.* But the gnawing void in her gut, the curse's relentless drain, argued with a more compelling logic. *A sound like that can only be made by a creature of significant power. A high-quality meal. One worthy of your station.*
"Oh, do be careful, dear," Seraphine tittered, her voice laced with mockery. "It sounds like a mating call. You wouldn't want to be mistaken for being in season. How delightfully provincial."
The insult was the final push she needed. Caution was a luxury for the well-fed. Veridia rose to her feet, her jaw set. She would not be lured. She would be the hunter, and that beautiful, predatory sound was her prey. She followed the song out of the murky foothills, climbing higher into the jagged peaks of the Slag Crown, the melody growing clearer and more complex with every step. The trees thinned, and she broke through the treeline to see it: a sheer cliff face, a vertical wall of granite riddled with dark caves. Winged, humanoid figures swooped between the openings, their forms silhouetted against the gray sky. It was a roost.
***
From the cover of a rocky outcrop, Veridia studied her quarry. The air was sharp with the scent of ozone and stale bird droppings, the ground littered with the gnawed bones of unidentifiable creatures. These were not mindless beasts. The harpies wore scavenged armor—plates of rusted metal strapped to their limbs with leather, pauldrons made from the skulls of mountain goats. They sharpened crude spears on the rocks and chattered to one another in a language of sharp, intelligent clicks and shrieks. They were a clan, organized and armed.
One stood apart from the others on a higher ledge. She was larger, her wings broader, her body adorned with more ornate, polished bone armor. A clear matriarch. A queen. The most potent source.
Veridia's mind, now honed by a new and brutal pragmatism, began to calculate. *A direct assault is suicide. Seduction is unlikely, they seem too feral. A lure, perhaps? Draw one away from the clutch?*
"Their wings are powerful, you know," Seraphine's voice whispered in her ear, suddenly conversational, breaking her concentration. "But the joints, where they meet the shoulder? A clear and crippling weakness."
Veridia froze. The comment was jarring, out of place. It wasn't mockery. It was tactical advice. She dismissed it as a fluke, her sister attempting to bait her into a more spectacular, bloody fight for the viewers.
She stayed silent, watching as a harpy took flight, its powerful wings catching an updraft with practiced ease.
"And their bones are hollow," Seraphine continued, her tone now that of a helpful, almost patient tutor. "A trait shared with lesser birds. Shockingly vulnerable to blunt force. A well-aimed rock could shatter a leg and ground one for good. Just a thought, darling, if you plan on doing anything other than starving dramatically."
Veridia's blood ran cold. This was wrong. Her first instinct was that Seraphine, bored with her pathetic struggles, simply wanted a better show. A real fight, not a cowardly ambush or another humiliating submission. But the advice kept coming, too specific, too useful, delivered with a detached, directorial calm. It wasn't commentary. It was coaching.
The pieces clicked into place with a sickening finality. The convenient song. The perfect natural stage. The well-armed but manageable threat. The expert advice delivered at the perfect moment. This wasn't a hunt. It was an appointment. The realization hit her like a physical blow, a sudden, nauseating clarity that shifted the entire world on its axis. Seraphine hadn't just been watching the show. She had been producing it. The song hadn't been a random encounter; it had been a lure, a piece of bait to guide her here. To this specific stage. To these specific actors. She wasn't an unwilling star. She was a puppet, and her sister had been holding the strings all along.
Her goal snapped into a new focus, sharp and cold as ice. It was no longer about how to fight the harpies. It was about *why* her sister wanted her to fight *them*. Her pride, stung by the sheer depth of the manipulation, flared into a cold, white-hot rage. She would not retreat. She would not follow the script. She would walk onto Seraphine's stage and burn the whole theater down.
***
Veridia stepped from the shadows of the rocks into the open, windswept clearing before the roost. The act was deliberate, a gauntlet thrown down. The chattering of the harpies ceased instantly, a hundred pairs of predatory eyes fixing on her.
Seraphine's illusion appeared beside her, a smug, triumphant smile playing on her lips. "Finally," she whispered, her voice a purr of satisfaction. "The show begins."
From the highest perch, the matriarch descended. She was magnificent and terrifying. A crown of polished humanoid skulls was woven into her hair, and she held a long spear tipped with a shard of glowing, black crystal. She did not fall or crash; she landed with the silent, coiled grace of a seasoned killer, her talons barely disturbing the dust.
The harpy queen, Skara Shriektongue, fixed Veridia with eyes that glittered with a cold, unnatural cunning. There was no bestial fury in her gaze, only intelligent, calculating appraisal. Her eyes flicked for a split second to the empty air where Seraphine's untouchable form floated, a glance of clear recognition that made Veridia's stomach clench.
Skara's beak opened, and her voice, a sharp and perfectly enunciated shriek, cut through the silence.
"So," she said, a cruel smile twisting her features. "The little star has finally arrived. Our mutual sponsor will be so pleased."
The matriarch, Skara Shriektongue, descended from her throne. She did not fall or swoop; she glided down with a slow, deliberate grace that was far more terrifying than any bestial charge. She landed silently, her talons barely disturbing the dust, and began to circle Veridia like a shark, her head cocked. Her gaze was not one of hunger, but of sharp, analytical appraisal, like a director assessing an actress before a difficult scene.
Before Veridia could formulate a plan, the clutch moved as one with disciplined speed. A harpy on her left seized her wrist in a grip like an iron vise, while another mirrored the action on her right. She was thrown backward onto the cold, gritty stone floor, the impact jarring her teeth. Her limbs were wrenched apart and pinned down. Four harpies, one for each limb, held her fast. Talons, sharp as surgical steel, pierced the skin of her shoulders and thighs, digging just deep enough to draw blood and anchor her to the ground. The constant, sharp pressure was an agonizing grid of pain, a physical map of her utter helplessness.
Skara knelt between her spread legs, the cold press of her taloned hands on Veridia's inner thighs making her flinch violently. The harpy's face was a cruel, intelligent mask, her beak dangerously close. Veridia could feel the creature's hot breath on her skin, could smell the scent of raw meat and something else, something wild and musky that spoke of high, lonely places.
"A princess," Skara's voice rasped, a sound like stones grinding together. She ran a single, sharp talon from Veridia's navel down through the nest of dark curls at the apex of her thighs, a slow, possessive trace that was both a threat and a promise. "Let's see if you taste like royalty."
Skara's mouth descended. It was not a kiss, but a claiming. Her tongue, surprisingly human-like but rough as sand, lapped at the blood welling from the talon mark before moving lower with an expert's confidence. Veridia cried out as the harpy's mouth closed over her, a hot, wet pressure that was both a violation and a masterful assault. Skara's tongue was a merciless instrument, laving her slick folds, drawing her swollen clit between sharp lips, a constant, dangerous dance between pleasure and pain. Veridia's back arched, her hands straining against the harpies' grip, a choked moan torn from her throat as her body betrayed her will.
As the vicious pleasure built to an unbearable peak, Skara suddenly stopped. She grabbed Veridia by the hair, yanking her head back until her neck was exposed, her body twisted into a pose of exquisite, tragic vulnerability. The position was agonizingly familiar—a tableau of humiliation she herself had forced upon countless rivals in the Court. It was too specific. Too… composed.
***
"Hold still," Skara hissed in her ear, her voice a low command meant only for her. "The Patrons love a good tableau."
The word landed not as a shock, but as a final, damning confirmation. Veridia's mind, which had been reeling from the physical assault, went perfectly, chillingly still. The pain and pleasure became distant things. Patrons. The suspicion that had bloomed in her mind during Seraphine's "coaching" was now a grotesque, undeniable reality. This wasn't just a setup; it was a performance, and this agonizing pose was her cue. The realization was a physical shock, and her body went limp, all resistance draining away not in defeat, but in horrifying clarity.
The realization was a physical shock, and her body went limp, all resistance draining away not in defeat, but in horrifying clarity. Skara took this as surrender. With a triumphant shriek that echoed off the bone-white cliffs, she signaled her clutch. Veridia was lifted from the stone floor, her pinned limbs held fast, her body suspended in their grip over the dizzying drop. The wind whipped at her naked skin, the sheer vertigo a new and terrifying violation.
Skara moved over her, a dark shadow against the grey sky. The harpy queen's final assault was an overwhelming act of dominance, a brutal, plunging rhythm that stole the air from Veridia's lungs and blurred the sky into a meaningless smear. She could do nothing but endure it, her body a vessel for the harpy's victory, the sounds of their coupling lost to the howling wind. As the last of her fight drained away, the blessed, potent Essence of the matriarch finally flooded her system, a hot, life-giving rush that was a sickening counterpoint to the violation.
Spent and gasping, Veridia felt Skara lean in close, the harpy's beak brushing against her ear. The whisper was not a screech, but a low, cruel rasp, laced with an intelligence that chilled Veridia to the bone.
"A word of advice, Princess. Next time you face a creature of pride, don't try the same trick you used on Lord Malakor's pet serpent. It only works once."
The words—a mocking reference to her most private, catastrophic failure—were a poisoned dagger. There was only one person in the cosmos who would twist that knife with such glee, who would know that specific secret and use it with such theatrical cruelty. Veridia's eyes widened in horrified understanding, staring past Skara's triumphant face and into the empty air where she knew, with absolute certainty, the ghost of her sister was smiling.