The psychic echo of the kiss—a jarring, silent scream of cold fury and desperate strategy—still hung in the oppressive atmosphere. The Sorrow-Eater, a colossal, shifting form of placid grief, remained unmoved, a mountain of mist and memory. Its voice was not a sound but a feeling, a deep, resonant chord of stone and sorrow that vibrated in the marrow of their bones.
*A single, bitter note is not a chord. A hateful echo is not harmony. The gate remains sealed.*
The pressure in the air intensified, a physical weight squeezing the breath from their lungs. The creature's hollow eyes, voids of numbing despair, focused on the life-link between them, tasting the raw, undiluted animosity that flowed through the psychic channel like a torrent of filth.
*Show me the ritual of coming together,* the thought-voice commanded, its placid tone making the demand all the more obscene. *A symphony of shared sensation. Only a true, resonant harmony can soothe the stone.*
The implication was unmistakable, a grotesque and undeniable mandate. A full, cooperative sexual act was required to pass.
Veridia and Seraphine turned to face each other, the space between them crackling with a loathing so profound it was almost visible. This was not a choice. It was a command performance with their very existence as the stakes. A silent, venomous agreement passed between them in a single, shared glance. They would do this. They would survive. And they would make it the most convincing, soul-sickening lie ever told, each filing away every demeaning detail, every forced touch, to be used as a weapon against the other when this was all over.
***
They began slowly, their movements a perfect imitation of hesitant lovers discovering one another for the first time. Veridia's hands, which longed to close around her sister's throat, instead traced the line of Seraphine's jaw with a delicacy designed to be read as reverence. The skin of the illusion was cool and unnervingly smooth, like polished marble.
*Poison ivy,* Veridia thought, her mind a cold fortress of disgust. *Her skin feels like poison ivy. But angle the hand. Let the guardian see the 'tremble' of your fingers. Sell the lie.*
Seraphine mirrored the act, her touch graceful and sure as she unfastened the crude clasps of Veridia's scavenged armor. The scrape of metal against leather was loud in the silence. It was the calculated grace of a seasoned performer, a mask for the seething contempt in her heart. *Remember this, Veridia,* her thoughts were a venomous whisper in their private, shared hell. *Remember the sound of your shame being stripped away. Remember how my fingers felt on your skin. I will use this memory to break you later.*
The cold air of the chamber kissed their bared skin as leather and cloth fell away to the stone floor. They stood naked before the creature, rival actors on the same horrifying stage, each vying to deliver a more flawless performance of a passion that was the antithesis of their reality.
The pace deliberately quickened. Veridia pushed Seraphine back against a cold stone pillar, her mouth claiming her sister's in a bruising, open-mouthed kiss that was a parody of hunger. It was a clash of teeth and tongue, tasting of nothing but bile and cold fury. Seraphine responded in kind, her hands tangling in Veridia's hair, yanking her head back to force a gasp that was half pain, half performance.
Their whispered words were not endearments, but clipped, hateful instructions disguised as breathless moans.
"Your hand. There," Veridia hissed against Seraphine's lips, guiding her sister's fingers down her stomach. She forced a shudder, her voice catching in a faked gasp of pleasure.
"Breathe like you mean it, you fool," Seraphine murmured against her ear, the words a threat cloaked in a lover's whisper as her fingers found Veridia's slick, wet heat.
Veridia's back arched, a perfectly timed convulsion of feigned ecstasy. Her mind went to a cold, distant place, summoning the memory of a true conquest, of a mortal poet's exquisite terror as she'd drained him. She channeled that feeling of absolute power, twisting it into a believable performance of pleasure, her hips beginning to buck against her sister's invasive hand.
Seraphine watched, her expression a mask of adoration, her mind a ledger. She cataloged every flicker of Veridia's feigned vulnerability, every shuddering breath, every bead of sweat. This was not intimacy; it was intelligence gathering. Her own faked arousal was fueled by the promise of future torment, imagining the broadcast she would one day produce, replaying this very moment for the entire Infernal Court to witness Veridia's ultimate humiliation.
The performance escalated. Veridia sank to her knees, a calculated act of submission designed for maximum visual impact. She took Seraphine into her mouth, the taste of her sister a vile, metallic tang of pure magic and spite that she forced herself to swallow. She worked with a detached, clinical skill, her movements a perfect pantomime of worship while her soul screamed in revulsion.
Seraphine threw her head back, a cry of perfectly pitched ecstasy echoing in the chamber. Her fingers tangled in Veridia's hair, not in passion, but to hold her in place, a silent assertion of dominance. The psychic energy of their combined performance—Veridia's feigned submission and Seraphine's faked dominance—began to resonate, a discordant chord of false passion that vibrated in the air.
It was time for the finale. The symphony of lies.
Veridia rose, pulling Seraphine down to the floor with her. Their limbs entwined, skin slick with sweat and condensation from the cold stone, a flawless illusion of two beings consumed by one another. They moved together, a perfectly synchronized rhythm of mutual pleasure. Veridia's fingers found her sister's swollen clit, rubbing with a practiced, merciless rhythm that promised a release neither of them would feel. Seraphine's hand mirrored the motion on Veridia's own aching flesh, her touch just as skilled, just as empty.
Their cries began to build in unison, a duet of deception. Veridia's mind was ice. She felt the guardian's attention on them, a vast, confused pressure, and she focused everything on the final note. She threw her head back, a scream of pure, fraudulent bliss tearing from her throat as her body convulsed, a masterpiece of faked release.
At the exact same moment, Seraphine's own performance crested. Her back arched, her nails digging into Veridia's shoulders, her own cry a perfect, piercing harmony to her sister's. Their faked orgasms crashed together, a tidal wave of weaponized pleasure, a psychic broadcast of overwhelming, dissonant intensity that slammed into the ancient consciousness of their audience.
***
The Sorrow-Eater did not react with pleasure. It shuddered. The symphony was too loud, too perfect, its notes of feigned bliss underpinned by a screeching, silent harmony of pure, concentrated spite. The false emotions were a discordant, overwhelming noise, a cacophony of bliss that grated against its ancient sensibilities. The air vibrated with its confusion and psychic distress.
A strained, agonized voice echoed from the stone, cutting through their performance.
*ENOUGH! The harmony is… unbearable. A cacophony of bliss. The path is open. CEASE THIS!*
As the words faded, the great stone gate before them dissolved into shimmering dust, revealing a dark, silent passage beyond.
Veridia and Seraphine broke apart instantly, scrambling away from each other as if burned. The illusion shattered, leaving them panting on the cold stone, chests heaving not from passion, but from the sheer exertion of their lie. Raw, undisguised hatred flared between them, more honest than any touch they had just shared. They stared at the open path, then at each other, a new and terrible understanding dawning in their eyes.
They had just discovered a shared, intimate weapon born of their mutual loathing. The silent question hung in the cold, heavy air: who would be the first to use it against the other?