The quiet was a novel sensation, almost unnerving. Veridia moved through the sun-dappled woods, the soft crunch of fallen leaves under her boots the only sound in the otherwise silent forest. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the Curse of the Sieve was not a screaming, hollow void in her core, but a distant, manageable ache. A recent victory—a squabble with a territorial Glass-Hide Boar that had ended with her in complete, effortless dominance—had left her with a comfortable buffer of Essence. It was a feeling so foreign she had almost forgotten it: the feeling of being full.
A flicker of her old self, the Princess, returned with the tide of power. She had been a fool, cowering and scavenging like some pathetic mortal. This world, this Aethelgard, was not so different from the Court. It had rules, hierarchies, and weaknesses to be exploited. Power was still the only currency that mattered. She was simply learning its vulgar new language of tooth and claw. She was adapting. A genuine, predatory smirk touched her lips. She was, she decided, finally getting the hang of this wretched little game.
Then a new scent cut through the clean, earthy air. It was wrong. It wasn't the honest smell of a traveler's campfire or the musk of some foraging beast. This was a greasy, acrid stench, thick with the smell of burning thatch, scorched earth, and something else… something foul and unnervingly familiar. It was the smell of demonic residue, the ozone-and-brimstone tang of magic used with malicious, spectacular intent.
Her brief moment of peace shattered, replaced by a cold knot of dread. A column of thick, black smoke coiled into the sky just above the treeline, a pillar of ruin against the placid blue. She moved toward it, her earlier confidence dissolving into a hunter's caution, every sense screaming that the game had just irrevocably changed.
***
She reached the edge of the woodland and stared. The settlement wasn't just attacked; it was erased. What had once been a small farming village, nestled in a clearing, was now a smoldering wound on the landscape. Homes were blackened skeletons, their timbers still glowing with dull red heat. The fields were scorched in unnatural, swirling patterns that spoke of directed energy, not a simple wildfire. Bodies lay where they had fallen, not torn apart for food, but simply discarded like broken dolls. The air was thick with the smell of cooked meat and despair.
Veridia moved through the devastation, a cold, professional curiosity warring with a rising tide of horror. The scorch marks on the ground were deep, vitrified in places, consistent with demonic fire. But there was no lingering scent of a feast, no sign of Essence having been harvested on a massive scale. This wasn't a feeding. This was an extermination. A political statement designed to look like a demonic atrocity. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make this look like her kind of work.
A faint whimper drew her attention. Huddled beneath an overturned, burning hay cart was a single survivor, an old woman, her face a mask of soot and terror. Veridia approached slowly, keeping her hands open and visible in what she hoped was a placating gesture.
The woman's eyes, wide and milky with shock, fixed on Veridia's face—on the subtle, inhuman cast of her features, the faint residual glow of her power. She didn't just scream. She recoiled, scrambling backward in the dirt, a choked, terrified sound rattling in her throat.
With a trembling, bony finger, she pointed. "It was you!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with madness and grief. "One of you! The other one… the one made of whispers and smiles… she said the Vex curse was upon us! She said her sister would finish the job!"
The accusation, so specific, so perfectly damning, struck Veridia with the force of a physical blow. *Seraphine.* This was her sister's opening move in their new war. A masterpiece of outsourced cruelty, designed for maximum impact and perfect deniability. Veridia wasn't just being hunted; she was being framed.
***
Before the weight of the old woman's words could fully settle, a new sound cut through the crackle of the dying fires. Warhorns. The deep, brazen call echoed from the main road, followed by the rhythmic, disciplined tramp of hundreds of marching feet.
Veridia spun around, her eyes wide with dawning horror. Cresting the hill was a column of soldiers, their polished steel armor glinting in the afternoon sun. Their banners whipped in the wind, each one bearing the sigil of a mailed fist clenched in righteous fury—the personal mark of King Theron Ironhand. The Silver Coalition.
At the head of the legion rode a man whose face she recognized from wanted posters nailed to every tavern door and town gate. A Knight-Justicar, his expression a mask of cold, fanatical certainty. She knew his reputation: a man who saw compromise as heresy and extermination as the only true justice for demonkind.
With a chilling certainty that froze the blood in her veins, Veridia realized they were not a rescue party. They were a hunting party. And the survivor's cry had just given them their target.
Panic, cold and absolute, seized her. She broke into a run, diving back into the relative cover of the wilderness as the first shouts rose from the legion behind her. She was no longer just a forgotten exile, a piece of entertainment for a distant audience. She was now the most wanted enemy in the kingdom.
She scrambled behind a large granite boulder, her lungs burning, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The sounds of the hunt were already beginning—orders being shouted, the baying of warhounds unleashed from their cages. She was cornered, exposed, and utterly alone.
The air in front of her shimmered.
A familiar, perfect illusion coalesced out of the grime-filled air. Seraphine stood before her, a vision of ethereal glamour, not a speck of soot on her flawless gown. She inspected her long, elegant nails with an air of detached boredom, then lifted her gaze to meet Veridia's, her head tilting with mock sympathy.
A sweet, venomous smile played on her lips as she took in her sister's panicked, filth-streaked state.
"Having fun, sister?"