The King's Decree

The afterglow of victory was a fleeting warmth against the new, permanent chill in her soul. Veridia stood on a windswept hill overlooking the Tithelands, her fingers tracing the prize from her encounter with Castian the Vowed. It was no longer a simple silver locket; the holy symbol, torn from the zealot's neck, now pulsed with a faint, violet-black luminescence, humming with a dissonant energy that vibrated in her bones. It felt unnervingly cold against her skin. She was exhausted, drained to the very dregs of her being, but a deep, smug satisfaction pulsed through her. The Essence she had harvested from him was a vintage beyond compare, laced with the exquisite flavor of a shattered soul and broken faith. She had faced righteous fire and bent it to her will. She had won.

A shimmer of heat-haze in the cold air announced the pest. Seraphine materialized, draped in ethereal silks, a picture of untouchable perfection. "Quite the performance, sister," she purred. "Though a bit… understated for my taste. All that kneeling and weeping. Very little spectacle."

"Spectacle is a child's game," Veridia shot back, turning the corrupted holy symbol over in her palm. It was heavier than it looked, the faded etchings of faith now warring with the dark energy she had poured into it. "I played a mortal's game. I used their own pathetic honor as a weapon against them. It was subtle. It was art."

Seraphine's laughter was like the shattering of fine glass. "Art? You call that pathetic trinket art? You barely escaped with your life, and for what? A bauble that pulses with bad energy. The Patrons were hardly impressed. No major Boons, no soaring ratings. You merely survived."

Veridia's hand tightened around the symbol. "I survived because I was smarter."

"Were you?" Seraphine's smile was a razor's edge. "You played his game, sister, and you won. But did you ever stop to ask yourself *why* a man like that, a creature of absolute conviction, shattered so easily? Did you ever wonder if he *let* you win?"

The question landed like a stone in a still pond, sending ripples of unease through Veridia's triumph. The memory of his clumsy, desperate movements, the way his will had crumbled not with a crack but like a landslide… She shoved the thought away, dismissing it as jealousy. Seraphine couldn't stand to see her succeed. "He didn't let me do anything. I broke him."

"If you say so," Seraphine sighed, already looking bored. "Do try to find a dry ditch to sleep in. I'd hate for my star to catch a chill." She paused, a flicker of genuine malice in her eyes. "While you were playing your little psychodrama, I was diversifying my portfolio. An army of brutes is so much more reliable than fleeting whims. Warlord Grummash of the Slag Orcs sends his regards."

Veridia ignored her, focusing on the dark line of a forest in the distance. Shelter. The immediate danger was past. For the first time since the Host Swap, a fragile sense of control settled over her. She had a new weapon, a full belly, and the memory of a zealot's broken prayer. It was a start.

***

The throne room of King Theron Ironhand was a monument to order. Polished marble floors reflected the severe, humorless light filtering through high, narrow windows. There were no frivolous decorations, only grim tapestries depicting the glorious, bloody battles of the Great Cleansing. The very air felt disciplined, heavy with the weight of unbending law.

Castian the Vowed stood before the throne, his presence a disruption to the room's perfect symmetry. He was grim, resolute, his armor stained with the dirt of the field, his single eye burning with a cold fire.

King Theron sat impassive, his hands gripping the arms of his iron throne. "You operate outside the chain of command, Castian," the King's voice was low, the sound of grinding stone. "You hunt on my lands without my authority. Explain yourself."

Castian did not bow. He did not beg forgiveness. He delivered a report. "Your Majesty, I engaged a demonic entity near the western watchtower. A succubus. Veridia Vex."

A murmur rippled through the assembled, stern-faced court.

"I was not hunting a lone monster," Castian continued, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "I was countering an organized incursion. This creature, this Veridia, is not alone. She is followed, haunted, by the spectral image of her sister, Seraphine."

King Theron leaned forward, his composure cracking for the first time, a fissure in a granite cliff. "A second demon?"

"Of a different sort," Castian said grimly. "Their conflict, their entire existence on our soil, is a performance. A 'broadcast' for the amusement of their masters. They use our kingdom as their stage, our people as their props." He paused, letting the weight of the word land. "Spectacle."

The King's face hardened into a mask of cold fury. The word was a profound insult, a violation of everything he had built. His kingdom was a fortress of order, and these creatures were treating it like a theater for their chaotic, vulgar games.

"They are not two demons, Your Majesty," Castian pressed, delivering the killing blow. "They are a single infestation with two heads. One is the physical agent, spreading corruption. The other is the spectral controller, guiding the narrative. They are playing a game on our soil."

Theron Ironhand rose slowly from his throne. The legendary discipline that held his kingdom together was now focused into a single point of terrible clarity. The thought of his realm, his perfect fortress of law, being used as a backdrop for a demonic reality show was an obscenity beyond measure.

***

The King's proclamation spread like wildfire. In a dusty town square, a royal crier, his voice raw with authority, unrolled a fresh scroll. The crowd—farmers, merchants, blacksmiths—listened with grim faces as the words rang out against the stone buildings.

"By order of King Theron Ironhand, the demonic sisters of House Vex, Veridia and Seraphine, are declared a unified threat to the sovereignty of this kingdom! Their spectacle is an act of war! Their presence is a plague! A bounty is placed upon both their heads—dead or alive!"

Workers moved through the towns, slapping wet paste onto walls and notice boards, covering old edicts with the new, urgent command.

Hiding in the shadows of a filthy alleyway, Veridia watched them. The smug confidence she'd felt only hours before had curdled into a knot of cold dread. One of the workers finished his task, smoothing down a fresh poster before moving on. The image was crude, but unmistakable. Two faces, side-by-side. Her own, twisted in a demonic sneer, and next to it, the beautiful, smiling, and now very tangible face of Seraphine. The artist had captured her sister's smugness perfectly.

The game hadn't just changed. The rules had been burned. She was no longer a performer trying to win over an audience. She was prey, and an entire kingdom was now the hunt.