The chamber was a monument to Zael's ego. Opulent, unsettling, and fundamentally unstable, the pocket dimension shifted around them with the slow, almost imperceptible rhythm of his breathing. One moment, the walls were polished obsidian reflecting their strained faces; the next, they were writhing tapestries depicting impossible, glorious tortures that seemed to sigh with pleasure. Veridia stood beside her sister, the ten-foot tether of their life-link a cold, invisible chain, both of them staring at the figure on the throne.
Prince Zael lounged on a seat of woven, writhing shadows, the picture of bored divinity. He regarded them not as peers, but as intriguing new toys he was about to break, a flicker of amusement in his ancient eyes.
"Welcome, ladies, to the audition," he purred, his voice echoing slightly in the vast, changing space. "I find myself in the market for a new… project. A new star to produce. But I require a partner with a certain finesse, a certain *appetite* for the game." He gestured grandly to the impossible architecture around them. "So, I have devised a series of simple challenges. The winner, of course, earns my exclusive patronage. My resources, my influence, my protection. A prize of some significance, I'm told."
Veridia's eyes narrowed. It was a game. Another cursed game, hosted by another preening male with a god complex. She glanced at Seraphine, whose illusory form was drawn tight with a contempt so pure it was practically a physical force. Their gazes met for a fraction of a second, a silent exchange of unadulterated venom.
"The rules are delightfully vague," Zael continued, a charming smile playing on his lips. "Creativity in overcoming obstacles is not only permitted but encouraged. In fact, it's the main thing I'm scoring." He was giving them a license to destroy each other, metaphorically or otherwise, and promising a reward for the one who did it with the most style.
"I accept," Seraphine said, her voice like ice, her eyes still locked on Veridia. Her mind was already racing, reframing this chaos as a new season, a new arc she could control.
"Of course you do," Veridia shot back, addressing Zael but aiming the words like daggers at her sister. "I'm in."
Zael's smile widened, sharp and predatory. "Excellent. Let the games begin."
***
The world dissolved and reformed into a shifting labyrinth of mirrored walls. Phantom voices slithered from the reflective surfaces, whispering their deepest shames. Veridia pushed forward, ignoring the taunts of her own failures, the echoes of her family's disappointment. But she saw Seraphine falter ahead, her form flickering as a chorus of whispers grew louder, all chanting the same two words.
*Host Swap. Host Swap. Host Swap.*
Seraphine clutched her head, a strangled noise escaping her lips. It was the memory of her ultimate humiliation, the broadcast that had shattered her untouchable brand and made her a victim in her own show. Seizing the moment, Veridia focused, weaving a minor glamour not of sight, but of sound. She gathered the ambient whispers, twisting them, amplifying them, giving them the texture of a live audience's roar, the venomous hiss of Patron commentary. Seraphine screamed, a raw sound of fury and remembered powerlessness, and stumbled blindly down a false corridor that dissolved behind her.
Veridia smirked, pressing on. But her satisfaction was short-lived. The air before her shimmered, coalescing into an image so vivid it stole the breath from her lungs. It was her, mud-caked and pathetic, kneeling in the filth of a forest floor. The hulking form of Gravemaw, the Alpha wolf, stood over her. It was her first degradation, the raw, animalistic submission that had been the premiere of her pathetic show. The memory hit her like a physical blow—the cold mud, the scent of wet fur, the crushing weight of her own powerlessness. She froze, her feet rooted to the spot, paralyzed by a shame so profound it silenced all other whispers.
Both had failed. From somewhere above, Zael's slow, condescending applause echoed through the maze. "A stunning display of mutual cruelty! Far more entertaining than a simple victory. Round two!"
The maze melted away, replaced by a single, shimmering bridge of pure light suspended over a black, starless void.
"The Bridge of Truths," Zael's voice announced. "It is stabilized only by the weight of a painful, personal confession. Cross it, if you can."
Veridia stepped onto the bridge first, the light solid but precarious under her feet. She took a breath, steeling herself against the internal cost. To speak a weakness was to hand an enemy a weapon. "I am afraid," she began, her voice tight, "that beneath all my pride, I am weak. That I only survived because others found my suffering amusing."
The bridge solidified. But before she could take another step, Seraphine's voice rang out, sharp and cruel. "She's afraid she's nothing without an audience! A pathetic performer who mistakes applause for power!"
Seraphine had stolen the confession, twisting it into a public mockery. The bridge under Veridia's feet flickered violently, threatening to dissolve. Veridia stumbled, catching her balance as fury burned away the shame. *Fine. Two can play at that game.*
She recovered, her voice ringing with cold clarity. "That may be," she called out, a vicious smile on her face. "But my truth for this step is not about me. It's about you, sister. It's about the desperate, pathetic deal you made with that brute, Grummash Bonebreaker. How you, the great producer, the untouchable Host, had to beg a filthy Orc for protection because you couldn't survive a single day on your own."
The raw, unexpected truth hit Seraphine like a physical blow. The section of the bridge beneath her sister's feet didn't flicker; it vanished completely. Seraphine shrieked, her illusory form dropping, her hands catching the edge of the remaining path as she dangled over the infinite void.
"Perfectly matched in your malice!" Zael roared with laughter from the darkness. "A spectacular double failure! I couldn't have scripted it better myself."
***
The bridge and the void dissolved, leaving them in a new chamber. It was dark, silent, and bare, a stark contrast to the opulent chaos of the previous tests. A single, harsh spotlight illuminated a large object in the center of the room, draped in heavy black velvet.
Zael stood beside it, his playful demeanor gone, replaced by a look of keen, predatory hunger. "The previous tests were for cunning," he said, his voice a low purr. "This final test is for ruthlessness."
He led the bruised and furious sisters to the draped object. The air was thick with anticipation. Veridia could feel the ten-foot tether pulling Seraphine along, her sister's form shimmering with barely contained rage.
With a dramatic flourish, Zael gripped the edge of the velvet cloth and yanked it away.
Veridia's breath caught in her throat. Seraphine let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.
It was a cage, forged from bars of shimmering, cold silver. Inside, kneeling on the stark floor, was a being of such incandescent beauty that it seemed to generate its own light. Powerful white wings, feathered like a swan's, were clamped and bound by glowing chains of demonic energy. Its eyes, the color of a dawn sky, were wide with a terror so pure, so untainted, it was a wound to look at. An aura of absolute, painful purity radiated from it, a feeling so alien to their demonic nature it felt like a physical burn.
An Angel.
For the first time, the sisters were stunned into absolute silence. Their bitter feud, their entire vicious game, was momentarily forgotten, eclipsed by the sheer, blasphemous impossibility of the creature before them. Veridia's mind, the cold calculator, registered it as the ultimate prize—a source of Essence so pure it could rewrite her very existence. Seraphine, the producer, saw it as the ultimate spectacle—a broadcast so taboo it would make her a legend.
Zael's voice dropped, becoming a hungry, conspiratorial whisper that slid into their minds.
"The final challenge is simple. No tricks. No maze. The first of you to break its spirit and consume its purity… wins."
He smiled, a slow, terrible curve of his lips that promised a new, glorious, and unforgivable kind of hell.
"Begin."