The acrid smoke of the Orc forge clung to the air in Warlord Grummash Bonebreaker's command tent, a greasy film that coated the back of Veridia's throat. She forced herself to chew the piece of gristly, over-roasted boar he had offered. It was a political necessity, an act of solidarity with her new, brutish allies. The meat was tough, the flavor a mix of char and rancid fat. It was the taste of her new life, and she swallowed it like medicine.
She fought the urge to gag, her stomach churning, and then it happened.
A phantom sensation bloomed on her tongue, utterly alien and exquisitely painful in its contrast. The crisp, cold sweetness of starlight-infused wine, the delicate flavor of a nectar so pure it could only be harvested from the dreams of sleeping gods. The air in her nostrils was no longer filled with smoke, but with the intoxicating perfume of a soul-orchid from the high gardens of the Infernal Court. It was Seraphine, somewhere in that polished, sterile hell, enjoying a moment of luxurious triumph. The phantom pleasure was a ghost of all she had lost, a mocking reminder of her degradation that turned the greasy meat in her stomach into a churning ball of filth. She choked back a wave of nausea, her knuckles white where she gripped the crude wooden bench.
Miles away, in a lounge of chrome and obsidian, Seraphine raised a crystal flute to her lips. The wine was exquisite, a perfect note of victory after a successful negotiation. She took a delicate sip, savoring the taste—and was met with the phantom flavor of burnt, greasy meat. The acrid stench of an Orc forge filled her senses, a vulgar contamination that made her sputter. The wine dribbled from her lips, staining the front of her immaculate silk tunic.
A nearby courtier, a sycophant from a lesser house, raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "My lady? Is the vintage not to your liking?"
Seraphine's smile was a tight, murderous line, a mask of composure stretched thin over a core of fury. The intrusion was a stain on her perfect existence. "It is… unexpectedly robust." Both sisters, separated by realms, were left seething. The bond was no longer a passive link. It was an active, intimate violation.
***
The thick mud of the training yard sucked at Veridia's boots with every step. She parried a clumsy but powerful swing from an Orc warrior, the impact jarring her arm to the shoulder. Her muscles screamed, her lungs burned with the effort. She pushed herself harder, the raw, physical strain a welcome distraction, a fire to burn away the memory of phantom wine. Adrenaline surged through her, a hot, cleansing wave of pure, brutish effort.
In the silent, pressurized atmosphere of a Patron's private viewing chamber, Seraphine was the picture of effortless control. She was negotiating a delicate broadcast rights deal, her voice a smooth, confident purr. "The exclusivity of the asset," she began, her words weaving a web of logic and desire, "demands a commensurate investment in…"
A sudden, phantom ache flared in her shoulder. A wave of primal, sweaty exhaustion washed over her, so real it made her knees feel weak beneath her. She flinched, her voice faltering for a fraction of a second. The stoic Patron across the table, a being of living shadow and ancient power, raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow. A crack in her perfect facade.
As Seraphine fought to regain her composure, she forced a state of icy, detached calm upon herself, a mental discipline she had perfected over years. The cold, intellectual focus flooded Veridia's senses mid-spar. The burning fire of her fighting spirit was instantly doused by a wave of alien stillness. Her instincts, honed by a dozen desperate encounters, went numb. Her movements became hesitant, her timing a fraction too slow. The Orc warrior, sensing the shift, roared and swung his axe in a wide arc. Veridia's parry was clumsy, easily batted aside. The flat of the blade slammed into her side, sending her sprawling into the thick, cold mud to the jeering laughter of the onlookers.
***
Veridia stood before Grummash, the Orc Warlord's gaze as hard and unyielding as the slag iron of his fortress. This was the moment. She had to convince him, to make him see the cold, brutal logic of her plan. She drew herself up, preparing to project an aura of absolute, demonic certainty. As she opened her mouth to speak, her senses were hijacked. The roar of the forge and the familiar stench of the camp vanished, replaced by an oppressive, sterile silence. The weight of ancient, bored egos pressed down on her, the air tasting of ozone and polished chrome. Her posture stiffened unconsciously. Her voice, when it came out, had lost its hard-won grit, replaced by the haughty, detached tone of the princess she once was. "The tactical advantages," she said, the words sounding alien in her own ears, "are self-evident."
Grummash's eyes narrowed. He saw not a pragmatic ally, but the very kind of arrogant, otherworldly demon his people had learned to despise. "Is that so?" he grunted, the sound a low rumble of suspicion.
At the exact same moment, Seraphine stood before a council of unaligned Patrons, her final, devastatingly witty closing argument poised on her lips. She needed their backing, their influence. She needed to be the picture of refined, superior intellect. But as she inhaled to speak, she was hit with the full sensory force of Veridia's world. The roar of a forge, the sting of smoke, the overpowering stench of blood and unwashed bodies. A surge of raw, brutish aggression—Veridia's desperate attempt to project strength to the Orcs—flooded her mind. Her carefully constructed facade shattered. To the Patrons, she suddenly appeared crude, flustered, her eyes wide with a feral light that was anything but sophisticated. Her pitch died in her throat.
They both failed. Catastrophically. In the ringing silence of their mutual, public defeat, they both knew, with a certainty that tasted like poison, that the other was to blame.
Veridia stumbled from Grummash's tent, his suspicious glare burning into her back. *This cursed bond,* her mind raged, *it's not just a leash, it's a weapon aimed at my own head! It was put here by a Patron's power... a Patron's game...*
Seraphine stood alone in the viewing chamber, the Patrons having departed with dismissive silence. *This ridiculous tether,* she seethed, humiliated. *This cheap dramatic device... it was a Boon meant to punish her that now punishes me! It's a function of their system... a system of power and influence...*
Veridia's thought was a blade of cold steel. *The only way to break their rules is to play their game better than they do.*
Seraphine's thought was a shard of ice. *The only way to overrule a producer is to appeal to the executive.*
And in two separate realms, in the heart of two separate furies, a single, identical thought crystallized.
*A Patron's curse... can only be broken by a more powerful Patron's boon.*