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šļø **[Previously on Exile's Ordeal]**
The Infernal Network War shattered the stage but raised the stakes.Ā
Now the broadcast moves to the courts of hell itself,Ā
where every smile is scripted and every victory must be televised.
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Prince Zael offered a cool, condescending smile that didn't reach his eyes. "My congratulations on your recent, spectacular success, Princess Vex. Your performance was the talk of the Court."
Veridia stood in the center of the sterile, chrome-and-obsidian spire, the silence of the room a stark contrast to the chaotic adulation of the past few days. A step behind her, a tangible, bitter weight, was Seraphine. The Soul-Tether connecting them pulsed with a faint, resentful warmth, a constant, physical reminder of their shared prison.
"Your pardon," Zael continued, waving a dismissive hand as if swatting away a fly, "was a charming piece of broadcast theater. But it is, ultimately, meaningless." He stressed the last word, letting it hang in the cold, still air. "The rules of the show are over, Princess. The rules of the Court are far older, and infinitely deadlier."
Veridia's hard-won composure felt brittle. "And you've summoned us here to give us a lecture on politics?"
Zael's smile thinned. "I summoned you here to warn you. Your little spectacle has drawn the attention of a moreā¦ traditional audience." He paused, his gaze sharp and calculating. "It has drawn the attention of Lord Malakor."
The name struck Veridia like a physical blow. Malakor. The architect of her family's cowardice. The catalyst for her entire ordeal. The memory was acid-sharp: the sight of her family choosing political expediency over her, casting her out to appease the very demon Zael now named. A flash of genuine, old fear, cold and sharp, pierced the armor of her arrogance. Her breath hitched.
Beside her, Seraphine went rigid, her face paling to a shade of alabaster. She knew the name not as a personal wound, but as a legend from the production briefs and gossip streams she had devoured as a Host. Malakor the Spurned. An unshakeable pillar of the old guard, a demon whose reputation was built on gravestones and unbreakable pacts that predated the Network itself. He was a creature of substance in a world of flickering lights.
"He doesn't care about your ratings," Zael said, his voice dropping to a low, mesmerizing cadence. He began to pace, his steps silent on the polished floor. "He is not a Patron to be entertained or a rival to be outmaneuvered in the media. He is a master of ancient curses, a creature whose power is rooted in substance, not spectacle." Zael stopped and turned, his eyes locking onto Veridia's. "He doesn't want to Cancel you. He wants to *unmake* you."
The words landed with the finality of a slammed coffin lid. For the first time since their ordeal began, Veridia felt a tremor of shared, dawning terror with the sister chained to her soul. Their personal war had been a nursery game. They had just been pushed into the path of a true monster.
Zael gestured to the air, and a shimmering, holographic schematic materialized between them. It was not a chart of E-Ratings or audience metrics. It was a dense, gnarled web of ancient, glowing lines connecting sigils of houses Veridia had only read about in history texts.
"Malakor is already moving against you," Zael explained, his finger tracing one of the glowing threads. "He isn't attacking. He is isolating. He is methodically severing your few remaining political alliances, buying the soul-debts of any who might offer you aid. He is preparing for a final, quiet kill, far from the Network's cameras."
Veridia stared at the complex web, her throat dry. It was a power she understood in theory but had never faced. It was slow, patient, and absolute. It was the power of the Court she had been born into but had never truly respected.
"But he has a weakness," Zael said, a flicker of predatory hunger in his eyes. "His traditionalism. He trusts nothing to memory, recording every pact, every debt, and every treacherous secret in a physical, magically-warded ledger." He collapsed the hologram with a flick of his wrist. "That ledger is the source code of his power."
Seraphine finally found her voice, sharp and brittle with fear. "And what? You expect us to fight him for it? A demon who could erase us with a word?"
"Fight him?" Zael laughed, a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. "No. That is what he would expect." He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "He sees you as vulgar entertainers. He would anticipate a political countermove, a media smear campaign. He would never, in a millennium, anticipate a simple act of breaking and entering. It is the one strategy his pride will not allow him to foresee."
A cold, terrifying logic began to crystallize in Veridia's mind. The fear was still there, a knot of ice in her gut, but something else was stirring alongside it. It was the flicker of the audacious, pragmatic survivor forged in the filth of the Scablands. The part of her that had learned to kneel to a goblin, to submit to a wolf pack, not for honor, but for a result. This was just a different kind of kneeling. Seraphine, however, looked horrified, a creature of the broadcast world imagining a conflict with no audience, no Patrons, and no boons to save her.
Zael seemed to sense the shift, the divergence in their reactions. He focused solely on Veridia, recognizing the true player at the table.
"He is hosting his annual 'Gala of Grievances' in three days. A decadent, formal affair where old scores are settled. The palace will be full, providing the perfect cover for two uninvited guests."
He moved to a console, and two items materialized on its surface with a soft chime. The first was an invitation, forged from what looked like woven moonlight, pulsing with a faint magical aura. The second was a floor plan, a detailed schematic of a fortress Veridia had once thought impregnable.
"This will bypass the outer wards," Zael said, indicating the invitation. He then pointed to a chamber on the map. "And this is his private study. But there is a final obstacle."
He paused, letting the tension build, a master of dramatic pacing. "The study is protected by a Pact-Ward. A powerful curse that judges the intent of any who enter. It will incinerate any common thief. It cannot be disarmed or forced."
"Then it's impossible," Seraphine breathed, a note of desperate relief in her voice.
"Not for her," Zael countered, his gaze locking onto Veridia. "The ward is keyed to the concept of *grievance*. It will only grant passage to someone who holds a legitimate, deeply felt grudge against Malakor. Someone he has personally and profoundly wronged." He smiled, a slow, cruel curve of his lips. "Your history is not a weakness, Princess. It's your key."
With a final, theatrical flourish, Zael produced one last item. A gown of shimmering, illusion-woven silk, the color of a midnight sky, materialized in the air before them. It was an echo of the life she had lost, a phantom of the power she once wielded.
Zael placed it into Veridia's hands. It felt impossibly light, yet carried the weight of an entire world.
"You wanted your station back, Princess," Zael said, his voice smooth as polished obsidian. "Lord Malakor's gala is in three days. I trust you'll know what to wear."
Veridia clutched the gown, the delicate fabric a stark contrast to the cold, hard plan solidifying in her heart. She was to be a princess again, not to hold court, but to commit a crime. She would wear the skin of her old self to perform the work of her new one. Across the room, Seraphine stared at the palace floor plan as if it were a map of her own tomb. The game was over. The war had just begun.