The battlefield was a churning vortex of mud, blood, and confusion. Smoke, thick with the scent of ozone and Orcish sweat, clung to the ground in a greasy shroud. Veridia scrambled for purchase in the churned earth, her lungs burning. The temporary truce with her sister had dissolved into a three-way meat grinder, with Veridia as the prize at its heart.
Castian the Vowed was a force of cold, disciplined nature. He moved through the chaos like a steel-clad shark, his consecrated blade a flash of white death that cut down any Orc foolish enough to stand in his path. He wasn't fighting a battle; he was conducting a purge, and his one good eye never left her.
Grummash's Orcs were a disorganized mob. They had been Seraphine's shield, but now, trapped between the zealot's knights and Veridia, they were simply dying. Their roars of fury were laced with the high-pitched squeal of confusion.
Veridia ducked behind the corpse of a slain Orc, the creature's blood warm and sticky against her cheek. Castian was closing. Ten yards. Five. He dispatched another warrior with a brutal, efficient thrust, his gaze never wavering. He was a machine built for one purpose: her annihilation.
Her power, the strange, humming connection to her sister, felt like a coiled serpent in her gut. Her first instinct, the old instinct of a princess, was to hoard it, to keep this new weapon a secret. But survival was a cruder, more pragmatic beast.
Castian raised his blade, its edge glowing with a faint, holy light. The final, purging strike.
*No.*
In a flash of desperate, blasphemous brilliance, Veridia didn't lunge at the hunter. She drew the crude goblin dagger she still carried and, with a guttural cry, plunged it deep into her own thigh.
Pain, white-hot and absolute, exploded through her leg. But a hundred yards away, another scream answered hers. Seraphine, surrounded by her hulking bodyguards, shrieked and collapsed into the mud, her hands clawing at a phantom wound in the exact same spot.
The effect was instantaneous and magnificent. The Orcs, seeing their demonic patron fall for no discernible reason, broke formation. A wave of confusion, followed by a tidal wave of rage, washed over them. They surged toward Seraphine's fallen form, a wall of green-skinned fury meant to protect their asset.
Castian stopped dead. His blade hesitated mid-swing, his mind struggling to process the sheer tactical absurdity of what he had just witnessed.
It was only a second. It was all Veridia needed. She ripped the dagger from her flesh, ignoring the fresh torrent of blood, and used the split-second of chaos to disengage. She fled, a limping, bleeding shadow swallowed by the smoke and the encroaching wilderness. Behind her, the disciplined line of knights crashed into the disorganized rage of the Orcs, and the battlefield erupted anew.
***
The mist of the forest was a cool, damp cloth against her feverish skin. Veridia leaned against the slick bark of an ancient tree, her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. The wound in her thigh was a throbbing fire, but it was a fire she had chosen. A fire that had saved her.
The air before her shimmered, and Seraphine's illusion coalesced from the gloom. The usual smug, camera-ready smile was gone, replaced by a mask of cold, undiluted fury. Her perfect form was marred by a subtle, glitching flicker around her leg.
"That," Seraphine said, her voice a low, dangerous hiss, "was a clever, desperate, and monumentally stupid move."
Veridia allowed herself a small, painful smile, savoring the raw anger radiating from her sister. She pushed herself upright, adopting a posture of regal confidence she hadn't truly felt since before her exile. "The game has changed, little sister," she said, her voice steady and cold. "There are no more safe distances. There is no more untouchable host. The days of you mocking me from your little booth are over."
"This changes nothing," Seraphine snarled, but the words lacked their usual conviction.
"It changes everything," Veridia corrected, taking a deliberate, limping step forward. "From now on, think of this link as a promise. Any ambush you arrange, any monster you sponsor, any trap you spring… you will feel it with me. Every cut, every bruise, every broken bone will be ours to share."
Seraphine's eyes narrowed into slits of pure venom. "You think this makes you safe? You pathetic fool. It just means I'll have to be more creative. I will find torments for you that leave no marks. I will break your mind. I will find a way to sever this link, and when I do, I will tear you apart piece by agonizing piece."
The sisters stared at each other through the mist, the pretense of their truce burned away, leaving only the pure, hard diamond of their hatred. It was a silent declaration of a new war, one far more personal and vicious than the last. With a final, contemptuous glare, Seraphine's illusion dissolved into the fog, leaving Veridia alone with her pain and her victory.
***
She found a small, secluded clearing, a pocket of quiet where the sounds of the distant battle faded into a dull thrum. Veridia sank to the ground, her back against a moss-covered rock, and finally allowed herself a moment to breathe. She had survived. She had won the exchange. But now what? She was alone, wounded, and her only weapon was one that hurt her as much as her enemy. The future was a blank, threatening map.
As she began to tear a strip from her ragged tunic to bind her wound, the air around her began to hum. It wasn't the familiar shimmer of Seraphine's appearance. This was a golden, authoritative light that bled into the clearing, silencing the chirping of insects and the rustle of leaves. The world held its breath.
A voice boomed, not from a single point, but from all around her, echoing directly in her mind. It was a fusion, a grotesque and magnificent blend of Lord Kasian's chaotic glee and Matron Vesperia's dramatic flair.
**"Viewers! The Rivalry Finale has concluded with record-shattering ratings! To celebrate this new, delectable tension, the Consortium of Perpetual Interest is proud to announce our Mid-Season Main Event! A race—to the Sunken Temple of Kor-Athek! The first to claim the 'Crown of the Drowned King' will be granted a Boon of legendary power. The rules are simple: there are no rules. Let the race begin!"**
The voice faded, and a spectral map flared into existence in her mind's eye. It showed her current position, a blinking point of light in a vast wilderness. Far to the south, across mountains and swamps, another point pulsed with an ominous, ancient power. *Sunken Temple*. The image burned itself into her memory and then vanished.
Veridia stared into the empty clearing, the pain in her leg momentarily forgotten. The silence that followed the announcement was heavier than any sound. A new target had been painted on her back, and on her sister's. A race had been declared. A mixture of cold dread and a familiar, hungry, predatory ambition coiled in her gut. A new performance had been announced. And Veridia Vex, bleeding but defiant, began to plan her opening act.