The high, thin air of the Slag Crown peaks was cold, but it no longer felt like a thief stealing the last dregs of her warmth. For the first time since she had been spat into this miserable world, the cold was a clarifying presence, a whetstone sharpening the edges of her victory. She floated, an intangible specter of triumph, watching her sister break upon the rocks below.
Seraphine was no longer an illusion. She was a heap of torn silk and bruised flesh, gasping against the sharp stone of the Manticore's aerie. Her form, once a perfect, untouchable broadcast, was now shockingly solid. Veridia savored the sight. She had dreamed of this, bled for this, debased herself for this perfect, final tableau.
With a thought, the 24-hour Host Swap concluded. Power, raw and potent, surged through Veridia's ethereal form. The surplus Essence from Ignis was a warm, placid lake in her core, sealing the metaphysical leaks of the curse. She was full. She was whole. And she was ready for her monologue.
She drifted closer, a raptor circling its kill. Below her, Seraphine pushed herself up, her movements clumsy, her face a mask of disorientation. Then, a new expression flickered across it—a genuine, primal terror. Her hand flew to her stomach, not clutching a wound, but as if trying to physically stop something from escaping.
Veridia knew that feeling. It was the sudden, horrifying emptiness. The gnawing hunger. The sting of the Sieve taking its first, brutal bite.
"How does it feel, little sister?" Veridia's voice was venomous honey, a private broadcast for an audience of one. "The mud, the cold, the emptiness? This is the part of the show where the fallen star is supposed to weep for the Patrons. Don't be shy. Your public awaits."
The terror on Seraphine's face vanished, replaced by a chilling, pragmatic focus. The producer's mind took control, her eyes darting across the barren landscape, assessing, calculating.
Veridia's smile tightened. "No tears? No pathetic rage? How disappointing."
Instead of begging, instead of lashing out with impotent fury, Seraphine staggered to her feet. She swayed, her body unused to the simple, crushing weight of gravity. She completely ignored Veridia's hovering presence, her taunts nothing more than irrelevant noise.
Her eyes, sharp and analytical, scanned the horizon. She noted the position of the sun, the direction of the wind, the treacherous slopes leading down from the aerie. It was the cold assessment of a general surveying a battlefield. Then, with a grunt of pained effort, she began to run.
It wasn't a panicked, blind scramble. It was a determined, energy-conserving jog down the winding goat track, her movements careful and deliberate.
Veridia's triumphant gloating soured into confusion. This wasn't in the script. The vanquished was supposed to grovel, to curse the victor, to provide a satisfying emotional climax. Seraphine was simply… leaving. The victory, so exquisitely total just moments before, now felt strangely hollow.
"Running away?" Veridia called out, her voice tinged with irritation. She drifted after her sister, a ghost haunting a fugitive. "How dreadfully boring. The Patrons expected a confrontation! Are you really going to deny them their finale after such a spectacular setup?"
Seraphine didn't break her stride. Her focus was absolute, her breathing ragged but controlled. Every step was an agony of weakness, but her mind was a fortress. *Escape. Assess. Acquire allies.* The mantra repeated, a silent shield against her sister's voice.
"Look at me when I'm tormenting you!" Veridia demanded.
Seraphine kept her eyes on the path ahead, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a response. She was denying her the content she craved, and in this new game, content was everything. The silence was a weapon, and it cut deeper than any insult.
Veridia fell silent, her annoyance curdling into a cold, grudging intrigue. She followed her sister's flight across the scarred foothills, no longer a victor watching a loser, but a strategist assessing a rival.
Seraphine wasn't just running. She was moving with a chilling purpose. She used the terrain for cover, sticking to the shadows of ridges where the wind would mask her scent. She followed game trails, not the obvious paths. Her route was not the most direct, but it was the most defensible. This wasn't a retreat; it was a strategic redeployment.
The full, horrifying realization dawned on Veridia. Seraphine wasn't trying to escape *her*. She was trying to get *somewhere specific*. The game hadn't ended. It had just evolved.
*She isn't running from the last battle,* Veridia thought, the words crystallizing with absolute clarity. *She's running toward the next one. She knows she can't win alone. She needs muscle. She needs an army.*
The satisfaction of her victory evaporated completely, replaced by the sharp, electric thrill of a new and far more dangerous hunt.
*She's not a victim anymore… she's a general.*
Veridia willed herself higher, ascending until the world spread out below her like a campaign map. She traced Seraphine's trajectory, extending the line in her mind's eye. It did not lead toward the human-controlled Tithelands, with its hostile knights. It did not lead toward the toxic Effluent Sinks, a place of scavengers and exiles.
The path led directly toward the jagged, smoke-belching peaks that clawed at the northern sky. The Slag Crown.
There was only one power there strong enough, and pragmatic enough, to make a deal with a cursed demoness. The Slag Orcs. A warlike people known for their brutality, their hatred of the Silver Coalition, and their endless hunger for any advantage that would give them an edge.
Seraphine wasn't looking for a hiding place. She was going recruiting. The war was no longer about survival. It was about to become a war of queens.