The gray dust of the ravine floor sifted through Veridia's fingers, the last remnant of her so-called Pardon. Her victory. It was a bitter, weightless thing, just like everything else in this miserable world. Ten feet away, Seraphine was a study in defeated fury, her perfect face pale, her form solid and vulnerable. The silence between them was a pressure cooker of hate, thick with the phantom ozone of a vanished, judgmental god.
*Enough.* Veridia rose, the movement a declaration against her own despair. She would not be shackled to this… this footnote. "This is where we part ways, sister," she said, her voice a low, final thing. "Enjoy your newfound mortality. I'm sure it suits you."
She turned and walked, each step a reclamation of her stolen triumph. One step. Two. Ten. A defiant stride that carried her fifty feet away before the universe snapped its leash.
It started as a cold spark at the base of her spine, where the hateful life-link was anchored. In a heartbeat, it erupted into a firestorm of pure negation. It was not pain. It was an unraveling. She felt her Essence, the precious dregs she'd fought so hard for, being ripped from her, siphoned into the void by an invisible, violent drain. Her vision swam with black spots, the curse's hunger suddenly a ravenous, gnawing beast tearing at her from the inside out. A raw scream was torn from her throat as she collapsed to her knees, clutching her stomach.
And through the bond, she felt a second agony, not her own. Behind her, Seraphine shrieked—a sound of pure, uncomprehending terror.
Veridia risked a glance back. Her sister was also on her knees, her hands clawing at her own stomach, her face a mask of horrified confusion. She wasn't losing Essence—she had none to lose—but Veridia could feel what Seraphine felt: the phantom of it. The ghost of starvation, the metaphysical agony of a demon's final decline, was being broadcast directly into her pristine, untouched soul.
The feedback loop intensified into a vicious cycle. Veridia's physical torment fed Seraphine's psychic horror, and that amplified terror echoed back through the bond, making the drain on Veridia's own life force even more violent. They were two tuning forks of suffering, vibrating each other into a crescendo of torment.
"Stop it!" Seraphine gasped, her voice ragged and thin. "Whatever you're doing, make it stop!"
"I can't!" Veridia snarled through clenched teeth. She began to crawl back toward her sister, the pain receding with every agonizing foot. The tearing sensation lessened, the violent drain slowing. The moment she was within ten feet, it subsided completely, leaving only the familiar, dull ache of the curse.
They knelt in the dust, panting, two halves of a single, shared hell.
"This was your doing," Veridia accused, her voice shaking with a rage that felt thin and reedy after the ordeal. "One final, petty act of spite to ruin my victory."
"My doing?" Seraphine shot back, her eyes wide with a terror Veridia had never seen in them before. "I've shackled myself to a sinking stone! I can *feel* your pathetic curse gnawing at me. If you starve, I feel you die. Slowly."
The horrifying truth settled over them, colder and heavier than the ravine's shadows. They couldn't separate. Veridia's curse was now Seraphine's curse. Her survival was now Seraphine's most urgent, personal priority. They were no longer rivals. They were cellmates.
***
Rust-Town was a festering wound on the landscape, a chaotic collection of shanties built from scrap metal and the bones of old war machines. The air stank of refuse, cheap ale, unwashed bodies, and the metallic tang of desperation. It was the perfect place to buy a secret.
Their target was a grizzled information broker named Kaelen, a man whose face was a roadmap of bad decisions. Veridia, weak but still relying on the muscle memory of her former power, approached him with a sway of her hips and a low, promising murmur meant to bypass his brain and go straight to his baser needs.
He just grunted, not even looking up from the pitted knife he was sharpening. "Not interested in what you're selling, demon. Piss off."
The rejection was so blunt, so utterly dismissive, it stole her breath. Seraphine's mocking laughter echoed in her mind, a sharp, private needle. *Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Can't even buy a glance from a mortal pig with a rusty knife.*
Veridia's eyes narrowed. "I know what you are," she hissed, her voice dropping, abandoning seduction for intimidation. "You deal in the old lore. The things the Coalition burns books for."
Kaelen finally looked up, his eyes sharp and assessing. "Maybe. Information like that's expensive."
"He's lying," Seraphine whispered in her mind, a flicker of her old, analytical self returning. "Look at his left hand. The thumb is twitching against the knife hilt. He's more interested than he's letting on. He just wants to see how desperate you are."
A new, hateful strategy began to form. Veridia pressed on, using a piece of lore she knew was obscure. "We seek a being of immense power. A specialist in unraveling… metaphysical knots."
"The Weaver of Ends," Kaelen grunted, his eyes flicking away for a fraction of a second.
"He's heard of it," Seraphine confirmed instantly. "That's a recognition tic. He's trying to calculate his price. Push him. Ask him about the Carrion Pacts."
For the next ten minutes, they worked in a seamless, horrifying tandem. Veridia would pose a question steeped in demonic lore, forcing Kaelen to reveal the edges of his knowledge. The moment he would try to feign ignorance or inflate his price, Seraphine, with her host's eye for micro-expressions, would identify the tell—the shift in his weight, the subtle glance, the change in his breathing—and feed Veridia the counter-argument. It was a masterful, three-way negotiation, and Kaelen was hopelessly outmaneuvered.
Finally, he slammed his knife on the table in frustration. "Alright, fine! The Weaver of Ends. It's a legend, a ghost story told to scare demonologists. But the stories say its sanctum is deep in the heart of the continent." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But you can't get there from here. The wastes will kill you. The only safe passage is through the city of Nocturne. And they don't take kindly to outsiders."
Veridia felt a flicker of triumph. They had a goal. A destination. And for one disgusting, terrifying moment, she and Seraphine had been a brutally effective team.
***
The gates of Nocturne were an unsettling mockery of beauty in the heart of the Scablands. Spires of polished black obsidian clawed at a sky the color of a bruise, and the streets beyond the gate were silent and unnervingly pristine. There was no refuse, no noise, no life. The very air felt ancient and heavy with a predatory patience that made the hairs on Veridia's arms stand on end.
They were stopped not by armored brutes, but by two figures in elegant, dark livery who moved with a liquid grace that was more unsettling than any show of force. Their smiles were polite, their eyes ancient and amused.
"Welcome, travelers," the first one said, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone. "All who seek entry to Nocturne must first receive a formal welcoming from the city's ruling body, the Ashen Council. It is a non-negotiable honor."
Seraphine, her old arrogance flaring in the face of this unexpected bureaucracy, scoffed aloud. "And who are this 'Council' that they can demand an audience with a Vex?"
The guard's polite smile widened, stretching just enough to reveal a set of sharpened, elongated canines that gleamed in the twilight. He gave a slow, chilling bow that was both respectful and deeply threatening.
"The Ashen Council knows precisely who you are, ladies. They have been... anticipating your arrival. They do so love new guests, especially those who smell of such a potent and fascinating curse. Welcome to Nocturne."