The forest floor was a mercy of damp earth and soft moss after the unforgiving stone of the mountain. Veridia pushed through a curtain of low-hanging ferns, the wet leaves cool against her scraped skin. Each step was an act of deliberate will, but for the first time since her exile began, it was not a desperate one. Her body was a tapestry of aches and raw abrasions, yet the gnawing void of the Curse was silent, smothered. A warm, humming surplus of Essence, stolen from the Sun-Scorched, pulsed beneath her skin. It was a foreign and exhilarating sensation—not just power, but security. The memory of being a predator, not prey.
A shimmer of gold and spite coalesced at her side. Seraphine's illusion glided over the tangled roots, her expression a mask of cold, controlled fury. The usual witty barbs and venomous commentary were gone, replaced by a thin-lipped, hateful silence that was somehow more satisfying than any scream of frustration could ever be.
Veridia allowed a small, genuine smile to touch her lips, a feral baring of teeth. "Nothing to say, dear sister?" she goaded, her voice raspy but gaining strength with every beat of her heart. "Has the star of 'Exile's Ordeal' finally forgotten her lines? Or is it simply hard to broadcast when you're choking on your own failure?"
Seraphine's form flickered, her perfect jaw tightening. An ethereal hand clenched into a fist at her side before dissolving back into shimmering light. The silence was a confession of her humiliation, a testament to Veridia's victory. She had done it. She had broken the unbreakable host. The thought was a heady wine, making Veridia feel invincible, clouding her judgment with the sweet, familiar poison of hubris.
She stumbled into a small, secluded clearing. A stream gurgled over smooth stones, its sound a promise of recovery. The air smelled of pine and rich, dark soil, clean and alive. It was perfect. A place to rest. To savor this moment of absolute triumph, to let the feeling of fullness and power wash away the memory of the last several weeks of degradation. She knelt by the water's edge, letting her guard down completely as she plunged her hands into the cool, clear stream, the victory a warm sun on her back.
***
From a rocky outcrop fifty feet above, Castian the Vowed watched his prey. His one good eye, a chip of cold granite, took in the scene with analytical hatred. He had tracked the demon's trail of chaos for days—the goblin tribe she'd used and discarded, the wolf pack she'd submitted to, the lingering scent of draconic power that clung to the air on the mountain's peak. The Manticore was a beast, a simple evil of tooth and claw. This succubus was something far worse. She was a thinking plague, a manipulative corruption that weaponized suffering for the entertainment of unseen things, spreading her influence like a disease.
He flexed his hand, the gauntlet of silver and petrified wood cool against his skin. Its holy runes, carved with the precision of a lifetime of devotion, pulsed with a faint, clean light only he could perceive. This was not a hunt for sport or bounty. It was an extermination. A sacred duty. He saw her now, kneeling by the stream, cloaked in an arrogance so thick it was a physical presence. He saw her mockery of the intangible ghost that haunted her, a clear sign of her corrupting nature. He saw the weakness in her victory. She was resting. She believed she had won. She believed the rules of mortals did not apply to her.
*Now,* the thought was a cold, clean command in his mind, sharp as the edge of a newly consecrated blade. *The blight ends now.*
He began a silent prayer, not of supplication, but of focus. It was a litany of conviction and iron will, a reaffirmation of his vow. The runes on his gauntlet flared, the light growing from a soft pulse to a steady, brilliant glow that cast back the shadows under the overhang. The power felt clean, absolute, a stark contrast to the messy, emotional energy the demon radiated below.
***
The world erupted in light and sound. As Veridia cupped the cool water to her lips, the ground around her exploded. Pillars of pure, white energy shot from the earth, their light searing and absolute. They weaved together in an instant, forming a cage of radiant, humming bars. The light was agony, a holy fire that scorched her demonic flesh on contact. A high-pitched, celestial chime filled the air, a sound so pure it felt like shards of glass grinding in her ears.
She screamed, a raw sound of shock and pain, scrambling back from the burning bars. The cage was seamless, impassable. She slammed a fist against it, and the surplus of draconic Essence within her flared in defiance, but it was like trying to douse a bonfire with oil. The holy energy consumed it, the feedback a fresh wave of torment that sent her sprawling to the damp earth.
A figure landed in the clearing with the disciplined, silent grace of a falling hawk. Castian the Vowed stood before the cage, his face a mask of grim, righteous satisfaction. His one good eye held no pity, no triumph, only the cold certainty of a final judgment delivered.
"Your games are over, demon," he said, his voice low and absolute, cutting through the chime of the cage. "Your spectacle has reached its conclusion. The sentence is death."
He raised a long, silvered blade, its surface gleaming with a light that mirrored the cage's bars. Veridia was trapped, her newfound power useless, her pride shattered into a million pieces. She was helpless, facing a zealot that her wit and spectacle could not possibly defeat.
Just as Castian prepared to thrust the blade through the bars of light, the air filled with a sharp, vicious whistle. A volley of black-fletched arrows slammed into the clearing around him. Most thudded into the earth and surrounding trees, but one struck his glowing gauntlet with a violent crackle of opposing energies. The impact was a physical shock, throwing him off balance, forcing him to abandon his strike and raise his arm in defense.
From the deep shadows of the forest, a figure stepped into the light. It was Seraphine, no longer an illusion but terrifyingly solid, clad in black leather armor that hugged a form made of real flesh and blood. At her side stood the hulking, tusked shape of Warlord Grummash Bonebreaker, his massive hand resting on the hilt of a brutal-looking axe. Behind them, the glint of two dozen pairs of red eyes appeared in the gloom—an Orc warband, their bows already notched with a second volley, their discipline a silent promise of death.
Seraphine's furious gaze was not on her trapped sister. It was fixed, with murderous intent, on Castian.
"Get away from her," Seraphine snarled, her voice no longer a silken taunt, but the guttural command of a warlord. "She is mine to kill."