The air in the chamber was a physical weight, thick with the scent of woodsmoke, the metallic tang of old blood, and a powerful, earthy incense that clung to the back of the throat, tasting of bitter roots and regret. It was a low, circular room, carved from the mountain's heart, its only light coming from the hungry, rhythmic pulse of runes etched into the stone floor. They beat with a low, subsonic hum that vibrated in the teeth. In the center, a nest of rough-spun blankets and dark furs waited.
Veridia stood opposite Seraphine, their expressions identical masks of cold necessity. The act of disrobing was stripped of all sensuality, a grim preparation for a necessary surgery. Silks and leathers fell to the floor, leaving them exposed not just to the chill air that raised gooseflesh on their skin, but to each other's unforgiving gaze.
From the edge of the glowing circle, the shaman began his chant. Rulk Soul-Gazer was a hulking, ancient Orc, his body a roadmap of ritual scars, his eyes holding the deep, unnerving calm of a master craftsman. He looked upon their naked forms not with lust, but with the detached focus of a smith assessing the quality of his steel before placing it in the forge. His voice was a low, guttural drone, the sound of stones grinding together deep underground.
He gave them their final instruction, his words simple and absolute. "The Forge requires three coals to burn hot. You will be two of them. Your hate is fuel. Your union is the fire. Do not let the fire go out."
As Rulk turned to stoke the incense burner, Seraphine's whisper, sharp as a shard of glass, cut through the air. "Try to keep up, dear sister. I'd hate for your pathetic stamina to ruin this for us."
Veridia's lips peeled back in a silent snarl. "Don't worry," she hissed back. "I remember you were always better at playing the whore. This should be second nature to you."
*This is a transaction,* Veridia thought, her mind a fortress of cold resolve against a rising tide of revulsion. Her pride, the very spine of her being, screamed at her to flee, to incinerate this Orc, to claw her sister's insipid face from the air. But her ambition, the cold, calculating survivor that had been forged in the Scablands, held it in check. The power they could create here was a key. It was the weapon she needed for the next stage of the war. To refuse was to accept defeat. And defeat was not an option. She would endure this. She would burn this memory from her mind the moment it was over. But first, she would use the power it gave her to burn Seraphine's world to the ground.
***
Rulk directed them to the furs with a simple, commanding gesture. The first touch was clinical, guided by the Orc's massive, scarred hands. He positioned them, one on each side of him, connecting the circuit. Veridia's skin crawled as her thigh was forced against Seraphine's, the contact a jolt of pure, undiluted revulsion. Rulk joined them, his large body a third, grounding point in the triangle, his skin hot as a furnace. It was an act of uncomfortable geometry, the three of them becoming a single, unwilling organism. The rough texture of the furs scraped against her back, a constant, irritating friction. With every forced connection, the runes on the floor pulsed brighter, the hum growing louder, casting the scene in a sickly, amber light.
The ritual demanded escalation. Rulk's movements became powerful and rhythmic, no longer the detached positioning of a guide but the driving force of a participant. He was a living bellows, stoking the flames, his grunts a percussive beat against the ongoing chant. The pace quickened, the actions becoming more primal, designed to draw out the maximum response. Veridia and Seraphine were forced to work in tandem, their bodies moving together to match his powerful, driving rhythm. This was not about pleasure; it was about generating friction—physical, emotional, and magical.
Veridia felt Seraphine's rhythm falter for a split second, a slight hesitation that threatened the entire ritual. A surge of cold panic, born of pure self-interest, shot through her. Without thinking, she reached out, her hand clamping onto Seraphine's hip, forcing her back into the shaman's relentless pace. It was a moment of perfect, pragmatic cooperation, a shared goal of victory momentarily eclipsing a lifetime of hatred. The perversion of it made the act all the more foul.
The air in the chamber began to crackle. Wisps of violet and deep red energy, the signature colors of their separate essences, bled from their skin. The tendrils of power were drawn out by the ritual, swirling around the three of them in a thickening, volatile storm.
"Now," Rulk commanded, his voice a guttural roar. "Face each other."
He shifted, his strength undeniable as he repositioned them. Veridia found herself on her knees, facing her sister, their bodies slick with sweat, their hair a tangled mess. The shaman moved behind Seraphine, his thick, hard length sinking into her from the rear while he pulled Veridia forward, forcing her mouth onto her sister's. The kiss was a violation, a clash of teeth and desperate breath, a taste of shared disgust. He drove into Seraphine, whose body was slammed forward, her sex grinding against Veridia's mouth in a forced, brutal rhythm.
Their final, shared orgasm was the focal point. To achieve it, they had to be in perfect sync, their bodies a conduit for the shaman's power. Veridia's head was forced up, and she had no choice but to look into Seraphine's eyes. She saw no rival, no sister. She saw a perfect mirror of her own revulsion, her own ambition, her own desperate, clawing will to win at any cost. For a nanosecond, beneath the layers of hate, a memory flashed between them—two children hiding in the shadow-gardens of the Vex palace, sharing a stolen secret. That flicker of shared history made the current violation infinitely worse. That shared, naked truth was the final catalyst. As Rulk's powerful thrusts reached a crescendo, a wave of pleasure, inseparable from pain and shame, ripped through them both. Their shared climax was the key, turning in a lock made of their mutual hatred, and unlocking a final, screaming surge of power.
***
The instant the ritual peaked, the runes on the floor flared with a blinding, silent whiteness. A deafening wave of pure power exploded outward, shaking the very foundations of the fortress. It was a raw, untamed storm of magical energy, a force far greater than any of them had anticipated. Rulk grunted, his body slumping back against the furs, the effort having taken a massive toll on even his formidable frame.
The light receded as quickly as it came, leaving the air tasting of ozone and spent power. The psychic connection between the sisters shattered instantly, violently, like a mirror dropped on stone. Veridia scrambled away from Seraphine as if her sister's skin were acid, her body recoiling with a shudder of profound disgust. Seraphine did the same, pushing herself to the far side of the furs, her face a mask of pale, trembling revulsion.
The chamber was silent except for their ragged, desperate gasps for air. The power they had created hung between them, a shimmering, tangible cloud of victory. But neither of them could look at it. They could only stare at each other, their bodies bearing the raw evidence of their shared ordeal. The overwhelming sense of triumph was instantly drowned by a tidal wave of self-loathing, and a renewed, more intimate hatred for the one person in the universe who had shared it with them. The illusion was possible, but the price was a piece of their souls they could never reclaim. They were now bound by a memory that would fester between them forever.