The air in King Theron Ironhand's war room was cold, smelling of beeswax from the map candles and the faint, sharp scent of polished steel. He stood hunched over a massive stone table, a grim statue of a man, his gaze fixed on the red markers indicating Orcish incursions along the border of the Slag Crown. Veridia stood opposite him, a silent counterpoint of demonic grace in a hall of mortal iron. She had forced her expression into a mask of weary, dignified concern, a performance for an audience of one.
"They are not just raiding for scrap and food," Veridia began, her voice a carefully calibrated instrument of quiet gravity.
Theron's head lifted, his eyes hard and suspicious, the eyes of a man who had learned trust was a fatal flaw. She met his gaze without flinching. "My sister is not a warlord. A warlord builds. A warlord conquers. Seraphine is a nihilist. This is not a campaign of conquest."
She let the words hang in the cold air, a seed of fear planted in the fertile ground of his prejudice. He saw all demons as agents of chaos, and she was merely giving his fear a name and a face. "Her pact with Grummash Bonebreaker is not a military alliance; it is a pact with savagery itself. It is a partnership designed to dismantle the very concept of order, to turn your neatly drawn borders into a canvas of chaos for her own sick amusement."
A flicker of something—not belief, but cold consideration—entered his eyes. This creature spoke his language. She understood his deepest terror.
Veridia took a step closer to the table, her finger tracing a line just south of the Orcs' current position. "She does not want your throne, Your Majesty. She wants to watch the idea of a throne burn. She wants to prove that her brand of spectacular, meaningless chaos is the only true power in this world."
It was a masterful performance. She used his own doctrine as a weapon, framing Seraphine as the embodiment of the mindless, destructive force he had dedicated his life to fighting. To sell the lie, she offered a sliver of truth, a piece of actionable intelligence.
"There is a muster point here," she said, tapping a ravine on the map. "A key staging ground for the next wave of attacks. It is a betrayal of my kind, of my own blood, to tell you this." Her voice dropped, laced with a convincing tremor of self-loathing. "But the alternative—allowing her to unleash that… plague… upon your world—is a greater evil."
Theron stared at the map, then back at her. The suspicion in his eyes warred with the cold, tactical advantage she offered. He saw a demon willing to break her own loyalties to stop a greater threat. He saw a weapon shaped exactly like his oldest enemy, and the irony was not lost on him. It was a poison, but a poison that could be aimed.
He waved a hand, dismissing the armored guards who stood like statues by the door. The heavy oak shut with a final thud, leaving them alone in the flickering candlelight. King Theron Ironhand leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her. The power dynamic had shifted. He no longer saw a prisoner or a monster to be cleansed. He saw an asset.
***
Seraphine's shimmering, ethereal form floated beside Warlord Grummash on a windswept ridge overlooking a dusty valley. Below them stood a single, isolated watchtower, a stone tooth jutting from the plains, guarding the Tithelands' grain shipments. Grummash grunted, his Orc lieutenants shifting their weight behind him, their heavy axes glinting in the harsh sunlight.
"This is the target?" Grummash rumbled, his voice like grinding rock. "A single tower? My warriors could take it in their sleep." He disdained the waste of strength, but the demoness's tricks had saved Orc blood before. He would listen.
"Taking it is not the point," Seraphine purred, her form flickering with amusement. "The point is the performance. I want noise. I want fire. I want a pillar of black smoke that can be seen from the capital. This isn't a raid; it's the opening credits."
She gestured with a translucent hand. "Send your biggest warriors. Have them roar. Let them smash the barricades with theatrical fury. This is not a battle, Grummash. It is a message. The message is terror."
The broadcast feed flickered in a corner of Seraphine's vision, a stream of data only she could see. The E-Rating was already climbing in anticipation. A notification popped up. *Lord Kasian has wagered 1M souls on 'Total Structural Collapse in under 10 minutes'*. Another followed. *Matron Vesperia has granted the Boon: 'Aesthetic Flames'.*
Seraphine smiled. "Make the fire memorable."
Grummash stared at the insubstantial creature, his expression a mask of cold pragmatism. This was not war. It was theater, and he and his warriors were the props. But it was a role that served his purpose. He gave a guttural order.
The Orcs charged, a wave of brutal, screaming violence. They smashed into the tower's wooden gate, their axes splintering the timber. The small garrison of human soldiers was overwhelmed in seconds. The Orcs were a storm of focused destruction, and moments later, the first licks of flame appeared. They burned with an unnatural, emerald-green hue, twisting into elegant, beautiful shapes as they consumed the stone. The tower became a torch, its smoke a thick, black finger pointing to the sky. The message was sent.
***
Veridia paced the stone floor of her chambers, the spartan room a stark contrast to the opulence she had once known. The psychic link between them pulsed, and Seraphine's illusion solidified near the unlit hearth. Her usual mocking smirk was gone, replaced by the cool, professional satisfaction of a successful producer.
"The kingdom is in a panic," Seraphine announced, her voice crisp. "Theron is mobilizing his legions. Our little feud is the talk of two realms. The ratings are cosmic."
"So, the first act was a success," Veridia acknowledged, stopping her pacing. "But it's not sustainable. We can't keep manufacturing attacks without one of us actually getting killed."
"Precisely," Seraphine agreed, her analytical purr returning. "A rivalry needs a climax, or a reason to pause. The audience will get bored of us simply circling each other. They'll demand a confrontation. We need a plot twist."
Veridia's mind was already there, seeing the shape of the next campaign. "If we are to form a temporary truce, one that Theron and the Patrons will actually believe, we need a catalyst. An outside threat. Something so significant that our alliance becomes a desperate, heroic necessity."
A cruel, brilliant smile spread across Veridia's face, a mirror of the one forming on her sister's. "The audience loves a 'monster of the week.' And if we need a beast so grand, so majestic, and so profoundly arrogant that no one would question us teaming up to put it down…"
She looked directly at Seraphine's shimmering form, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"It's time we paid another visit to Ignis, the Sun-Scorched."