The ground shuddered, a deep, grinding tremor that sent a cascade of roof tiles skittering into the street below. In the main square, a market stall erupted in a geyser of splintered wood and canvas as the Cyclops smashed it with a fist the size of a carriage. The screams of the citizens of Argent were a high, thin counterpoint to the giant's guttural roars, a chaotic symphony of terror.
Veridia Vex stood silhouetted against the fires, a cold, appraising look on her face. Beside her, Seraphine landed with a dull thud of Orc-forged steel on stone, her armor scuffed but intact. The shared psychic link between them was a nauseating flood of sensory input. The city's collective panic crashed against Veridia's mind in a dizzying wave—a cacophony of shrieking thoughts and flashes of fleeting, final memories. It was polluted by the blunt, exhausting thrum of Seraphine's physical exertion, a phantom ache in Veridia's own muscles and the coppery taste of her sister's exhaustion on her tongue.
"Your pet is making a mess," Seraphine bit out, her voice a low growl, each word punctuated by a ragged breath Veridia could feel in her own lungs. "Are you ready to put on your show, sister?"
"Our show," Veridia corrected, her tone like ice. "Remember the bargain. I handle the spectacle; you provide the vulgar brute force. Try not to trip over the choreography."
Their eyes met, a brief, hateful acknowledgment of their temporary pact. In that shared glance, Veridia saw not just the cold calculation of a fellow predator, but the ghost of a shared history that made their current alliance a profound violation. The plan was simple, a duet of destruction designed for maximum dramatic effect. Veridia would distract and dazzle, playing to the Patrons. Seraphine and her Orcs would be the hammer. Efficiency was irrelevant; this was about ratings.
*Kasian wants chaos,* Veridia thought, feeling the familiar, prickling pressure of the Patrons' collective gaze. *Vesperia wants beauty in destruction.* The static of Seraphine's presence was an irritating hum in the back of her skull, a constant reminder of the cage she was about to shatter. She would give them both a feast.
"Let's give them a finale," Veridia said, the words both a promise and a threat.
Without another word, they leaped from the rooftop, two falling stars of spite and ambition descending into the heart of the chaos below. The broadcast was live.
***
The city square was a ruin. Carts lay shattered, cobblestones were torn from the earth, and the Cyclops bellowed in the center of it all, a walking mountain of mindless rage. Veridia didn't attack. She performed.
With a flick of her wrist, she activated a Boon of "Mirrored Misery." A dozen shimmering, illusory copies of herself fanned out across the square, each one a perfect, defiant replica. The Cyclops roared in confusion, its single massive eye swiveling between the targets. It lunged, its fist passing through one of the illusions. The copy shattered into a thousand shards of beautiful, harmless light, a silent firework of defiant grace that chimed like breaking glass. The beast bellowed in frustration and smashed another, and another, each impact a new, glittering explosion. It was an artistically perfect waste of its time, designed entirely for Matron Vesperia's approval.
As the giant was occupied with its war on light, Seraphine struck. She and her Orcs surged from the alleyways, their movements brutish and efficient. The wet, percussive chunk of axes biting into monstrous sinew echoed across the square. Through their link, Veridia felt the jarring impact, the phantom pain of steel on flesh, immediately followed by Seraphine's grim, blunt satisfaction—a sensation as subtle as a club to the face.
This was the core of the performance. As the hamstrung giant roared, trying to pinpoint the source of its real pain, Veridia unleashed her next Boon. A "Whisper of Dread" washed over the creature. To the Cyclops, it was a minor, irritating distraction. But to the cameras of the Pandemonium Network, the beast's momentary pause looked like sheer, paralyzing terror.
It was the perfect, fake moment of synergy. The E-Rating meter, a metric only they could see, spiked to an unprecedented height. Flashes of approval seared through their minds. *Such beautiful chaos!* Kasian's thought was a cheer. *The tragic grandeur!* Vesperia's was a rapturous sigh.
The feigned paralysis gave Seraphine her opening. With a roar of her own, she used the giant's lowered knee as a ramp, her steel-shod boots finding purchase on its rocky hide. She scrambled onto its back, her movements a blur of grim purpose. She raised her enchanted axe high, the weapon humming with stolen power. The kill was brutal and final. Steel met bone at the base of the Cyclops's skull with a sickening crunch that Veridia felt in her own teeth. The giant stiffened, a low groan escaping its lips, and then it toppled, its fall shaking the city one last time before a profound silence descended.
***
In the quiet aftermath, King Theron Ironhand and his knights marched into the square, their polished steel a stark contrast to the sisters' blood-and-grime-caked forms. Their faces were a mask of shock, relief, and a deep, simmering suspicion. From the shadows of ruined buildings, the citizens of Argent began to emerge, their terror slowly giving way to awe.
Theron stopped before them, his jaw so tight it looked like it might crack. He was trapped, a king forced to praise the very demons he had sworn to destroy. "On behalf of Argent," he began, each word tasting like poison in his mouth, "I… thank you. You are… heroes of the realm."
The lie was so blatant, so beautifully painful for him to speak, that it made the victory all the sweeter. As the first scattered cheers rose from the crowd, a wave of shimmering golden energy washed over the sisters. It was their prize, a High-Tier Boon from the ecstatic Patrons. The voice of the Consortium echoed in their minds, a sound of pure, satisfied capital.
*A performance worthy of legend. Your prize is granted.*
The breaking of the curse was not a gentle release. It was a violent, instantaneous severing, a scouring heat that burned away the metaphysical parasite. For Veridia, it was as if a deafening shriek that had been blaring in her skull for months suddenly cut to absolute, perfect silence. The phantom limb of Seraphine's senses—her smug satisfaction, her bone-deep exhaustion, her simmering rage—was amputated. Her mind, for the first time since her exile began, was entirely her own. A rush of pure, unadulterated sovereignty flooded her, and it was the most exquisite feeling she had ever known.
Seraphine opened her mouth, a familiar, mocking remark already forming on her lips.
Before she could utter a sound, Veridia pivoted. She savored the moment, the simple, glorious fact that her sister would not feel the intent, would not sense the blow coming. It was an action born in the perfect, private silence of her own mind. She drove her fist squarely into Seraphine's jaw.
The crack of bone on bone was sharp and clear in the sudden quiet.
Seraphine stumbled back, shock and raw, undiluted pain blooming on her face—pain that was hers and hers alone.
Veridia flexed her knuckles, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. "Now," she said, her voice low and dripping with venom, "the real show begins."