The tense, fragile truce between them had lasted less than an hour, and already the silence in the desolate clearing was a weapon. Veridia stood rigid, every muscle coiled, while Seraphine paced like a caged, ethereal predator. The shared hope of a cure had evaporated, leaving behind the bitter residue of their shared damnation, a cold, unbreakable wire of shared dread stretching between them.
Without warning, the air warped. It shimmered like heat haze before coalescing into a sharp, geometric sigil of polished chrome and obsidian—the corporate emblem of the Consortium of Perpetual Interest. It hung in the air, humming with a sterile, absolute power that made Veridia's teeth ache.
A voice emanated from it, cold and disembodied, like a legal document given sound. "Pursuant to the unprecedented ratings success of the season finale, your broadcast has been renewed."
Veridia's blood ran cold. *Renewed? No. Not renewed. Extended. My sentence has been extended.*
Seraphine froze mid-stride, her illusory form flickering with a violent surge of shock. The humiliation of being made tangible, of feeling the first gnawing pangs of the curse, was still a fresh, raw wound. This was not a reprieve; it was a formal declaration that her suffering was now a permanent feature of the show.
"The following amendments to your contract are now in effect," the voice continued, devoid of any personality, each word a hammer blow against their reeling minds. "One: The grand prize of a full Pardon remains, to be granted to the season's winner."
The camera of the Censor-Symbiote zoomed in on Veridia's face, then Seraphine's, hungry for their reaction to this dangling, impossible hope.
"Two: The life-link is not a contractual flaw. It is an engaging new feature designed to maximize narrative tension and has been designated 'The Rivalry Clause.'"
"Three: Patronage is hereby reinstated. Boons will be granted based on performance."
The emblem pulsed once, a flat, dead light that seemed to suck the warmth from the air. The voice delivered its final, devastating verdict.
"There can be only one star. Prove your value. Or be Cancelled. Together."
The sigil dissolved into nothing, leaving only the oppressive silence in its wake. They didn't look at each other, but the space between them crackled with a new and infinitely more poisonous energy. The path forward was no longer a shared struggle. It was a race. A zero-sum game where one sister's victory was the other's permanent, cursed defeat.
"Well," Veridia finally hissed, her voice a shard of ice. "It seems you've gotten what you always wanted, dear sister. A starring role."
***
Seraphine materialized in a pocket of scrubland at the foot of the Slag Crown, the illusory perfection of her form belying the gnawing void in her gut. For the first time, she truly felt it—the Curse of the Sieve. It was a cold, parasitic hunger, a constant, draining ache that Veridia had endured for months. It was an indignity that settled deep in her bones, a metaphysical leak that made the very air feel thin and unsatisfying. Her sister's experience was now a weapon, a massive head start in a race Seraphine couldn't afford to lose.
Panic was a luxury. Calculation was survival. She needed an advantage, and she needed it now. Her eyes, cold and sharp, scanned the empty air as if seeing her true audience for the first time as a resource to be milked. She knew their appetites. She knew their vanities.
With a theatrical grace born of a lifetime of performance, Seraphine collapsed to her knees. Her perfect posture broke, her shoulders slumped, and she buried her face in her hands, a single, artful sob wracking her frame. "Is this it, then?" she projected to the unseen watchers, her voice a masterpiece of tragic despair, each word polished for maximum effect. "To be cast down, shackled to my own failure? Oh, the unpredictable cruelty of fate! To grant a glimpse of freedom only to snatch it away… to be made a player in the very game I mastered…"
She was playing to one Patron in particular. Kasian. He didn't care for tragedy, but he adored a spectacular reversal, a sudden, chaotic shift in the odds.
The performance worked. A shimmering distortion appeared before her, coalescing into a small, hand-held mirror of polished obsidian. A voice, booming with the glee of a gambler who had just won a reckless bet, echoed only in her mind.
"Magnificent! A truly pathetic display, little Host. I love it!" Lord Kasian roared with laughter. "Here. A Scrying Mirror of Fleeting Connection. Good for one call. Make it an interesting one, or I'll give the next boon to your sister."
Seraphine's head rose, the mask of despair vanishing as if it had never been. She snatched the mirror from the air, its cold weight a solid, reassuring promise in her hand. A Coalition knight was too rigid. A goblin too weak. She needed a hammer, not a scalpel. Focusing her will, she whispered a name into the glass, a name synonymous with brutal, pragmatic strength. *Warlord Grummash.*
***
In the smoky heat of his command tent, Warlord Grummash Bonebreaker leaned over a map of the Slag Crown, the hide marked with grease-pencil lines of attack. He was tracing the patrol route of an Argent Lions legion when the obsidian mirror on his table rippled like black water.
He instinctively reached for the massive axe leaning against his chair, the worn leather of its grip a familiar comfort.
A ghostly, ethereal image of Seraphine Vex rose from the mirror's surface. It was a face he knew from her whispers on the wind, the face of the demoness who had given him the intel to break the Coalition's last advance.
"Warlord," she said, her voice smooth and urgent. "We need to talk."
"I have nothing to say to a ghost," Grummash growled, his hand tightening on his axe. Her tricks had saved Orc lives, but the stench of demonic magic was a poison he did not trust.
"The Argent Lions are consolidating at the western pass," she said, ignoring his hostility, her tone sharp with purpose. "They plan to move two companies through the old mining tunnels at dawn, flanking your main force. They believe the tunnels are still a secret."
Grummash froze. The information was precise, actionable, and something she could only know through the foulest sorcery. It matched his own scouts' reports but added a layer of tactical detail that would turn a defense into a slaughter. He grunted, a low rumble of grudging respect mixed with deep suspicion. "Why tell me this? What do you want, demon?"
"An alliance," Seraphine said, her image flickering. "A pact. My cunning, my sight, in exchange for your clan's service. You will be my fists in this world. You will be the force that secures my victory."
He stared at the ghost in the mirror, his mind a battlefield of its own. He weighed the poison of a demonic bargain against the certainty of sending his warriors into a meat grinder. The choice was as ugly as it was simple. Results were the only law that mattered. "I agree."
Seraphine's smile was no longer the charming mask of a host. It was cold, sharp, and utterly terrifying. Her brief vulnerability was gone, replaced by the chilling authority of a queen reclaiming her throne. She gave him his first directive, her voice a venomous whisper.
"Burn a human village. A civilian outpost on the edge of the Tithelands. Make it a spectacle. And make sure every survivor, every patrol, every screaming refugee knows that Veridia Vex was responsible."