The dawn broke not with light, but with a slow, gray dilution of the night. The air was a thick, greasy soup of smoke from smoldering timbers and the coppery tang of cooling blood. Victory, Veridia decided, had a foul taste.
She stood on a small rise overlooking the ruins of their encampment, a place that had, for a brief time, felt like the capital of her nascent kingdom. The ground was a churned morass of mud, ash, and bodies—the twisted forms of Malakor's mercenaries lay beside the broken figures of her own warriors. Her eyes skipped over the enemy dead.
They were a statistic, a cost of doing business. She focused instead on the hulking shapes of the Orcs and the smaller, savaged bodies of the other Collective fighters who had fallen defending this patch of worthless slag.
Their victory banner, once a proud declaration of their alliance, now hung from a shattered pole, limp and coated in soot. The adrenaline of the long, bloody night had faded, leaving behind an ache that settled deep in her bones, a bitter emptiness that no amount of Essence could fill.
"Quite the kingdom you're building, sister," Seraphine's shimmering form materialized beside her, immaculate and untouched by the grime. "A bit heavy on the corpses, perhaps? The Patrons found the battle thrilling, but the post-show cleanup is proving to be a ratings killer. So dreary."
Warlord Grummash Bonebreaker's heavy tread announced his approach. He stopped beside Veridia, his movements slow, his usual explosive energy banked to a low, grim ember. He didn't look at her, his gaze sweeping over the field of carnage.
"We broke them," he said, his voice a low rumble, devoid of triumph. "They won't be back." He paused, the silence stretching, punctuated only by the groans of the wounded and the lonely crackle of a dying fire. "We lost a hundred and forty-two. Korgath fell holding the southern pass. He took twenty of them with him." He swallowed, his thick throat working. "The Shriektongue clutch that gave us the first warning… only three returned to their roost."
Each name was a stone dropped into the quiet. Veridia's gaze drifted over the wreckage of their home. The forges were smashed, the longhouse a skeleton of charred beams. "And what have we won, Grummash?" Her voice was flat, the usual fire banked to ash. "This pile of scorched rock? A graveyard?"
The Orc warlord grunted, a sound of profound frustration. His eyes narrowed, scanning the distant, empty horizon to the east, the direction from which their promised aid was supposed to have come. "The Prince's forces never came. We would have lost half as many warriors if his flank had closed the trap as promised. He left us to bleed."
***
What was left of the command tent was a mockery of its former self. Canvas hung in ragged strips from the frame, whipping in the cold, gritty wind that carried the stench of the dead. A single fungal lantern cast long, dancing shadows across the overturned furniture. Only the great map table remained standing, a defiant island in a sea of ruin.
A goblin scout, his face pale beneath its usual grime, scurried in. He held a small, ornate object in his trembling hands—a polished obsidian crystal, humming with a faint internal light. He offered it to Veridia, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe. "Found this on one of the enemy captains, my Queen. He dropped it when he fled. It feels… like them."
Veridia took the message crystal. It was demonic technology, sleek and pristine, its cold, smooth surface an insult amidst the filth of their camp. She recognized the design. It was a high-level communication device, likely for reporting back to a master. Her claw-like nail pressed the activation rune.
A holographic image flickered to life, its perfect resolution a stark violation of the shadowy tent. It was not an enemy commander. It was Prince Zael. He looked perfect, untouched, lounging in a high-backed chair in his luxurious spire. He held a glass of what looked like soul-wine, swirling the crimson liquid as he spoke, his expression one of detached interest. The contrast between his casual opulence and their devastated surroundings was a physical blow.
His voice was that of a detached investor reviewing a volatile asset. The message was not for them; it was a pre-recorded assessment for an unknown party.
"Malakor's assault was… brutish, but effective at testing the Vex-Grummash alliance. As predicted, they held, but the cost was catastrophic. Their operational capacity is shattered." Zael took a delicate sip of his wine, savoring it. "Conclusion: They are a useful siege engine, but too fragile for a long-term investment. I will withhold support and observe their recovery, if any. They are not yet worth the capital."
The hologram fizzled out, leaving a silence in the tent that was heavier and colder than any sound. Grummash's hands, already massive, clenched into fists the size of boulders, his knuckles turning white as he fought to contain a rage that felt seismic. Veridia's expression was utterly still, a mask of cold fury, but a dangerous, glacial light entered her eyes. The military betrayal was one thing. The insult—being called a "siege engine," a "fragile asset"—burned hotter and deeper than any wound.
***
"Oh, dear," Seraphine whispered, her voice laced with theatrical shock. "It seems your handsome new business partner has a less-than-favorable opinion of your stock value. How embarrassing for you."
Grummash let out a guttural roar that shook the tattered remains of the tent. He smashed his fist into the map table, and the thick oak splintered and cracked under the force of his rage. "He used us! He let my warriors die just to test our strength! To *test* us!"
Veridia didn't react to the outburst. She stared at the empty space where Zael's perfect, condescending face had been, her mind suddenly, horribly clear. The pieces of her exile clicked into place, not as a narrative of rivalry and revenge, but as a vast, interconnected schematic of use. It was a picture of such soul-crushing cruelty that it stole her breath.
*Seraphine tormented me for ratings. Lord Kasian gambled on my suffering for amusement. Matron Vesperia sculpted my pain into art. Malakor attacked me to restore his honor. And Zael… Zael spent our lives to check a balance sheet.*
The fury collapsed, not into despair, but into a moment of horrifying, cosmic clarity. The world tilted on its axis, and for the first time, she saw the board from above.
*They are not just rivals. They are not even enemies. They are gods, and we are the pieces they move. They are the players.*
Her eyes met Grummash's, and for the first time, she saw him not as a brute or an ally, but as another piece on the board, just as trapped as she was. The realization did not break her. It forged the last of her fear and desperation into something new. Something cold, hard, and terrifyingly patient.
"He's right, you know," she said, her voice a low, chilling whisper. The Orc's rage faltered, confused by her tone.
"Right about what?" Grummash snarled.
Veridia finally looked away from the empty air, a slow, terrible smile touching her lips. It was not a smile of mirth or triumph. It was the smile of a pawn that had just realized it could become a queen.
"We are a fragile asset," she said. "We are not players in this game. We are the game." She paused, letting the truth settle in the ruined tent. "And the first rule of winning a game you were never meant to play… is to shatter the board."