The first thing to return was the smell. It was an assault, a violation of consciousness. Not the familiar, sophisticated scent of soul-smoke and night-blooming executioner's hood that perfumed her private spire, but a thick, cloying stench of decay. Rotting leaves, damp earth, and the rank, musky odor of wet fur. It was the smell of the common, the filthy, the *real*.
Veridia's eyes snapped open. A canopy of tangled, dripping branches blotted out a sky she couldn't recognize. A sharp pain dug into her back, and she realized with a jolt of revulsion that she was lying on a jagged rock, half-submerged in cold, slimy mud. Her fine silk gown, once the color of spilled blood, was torn and stained a uniform, disgusting brown. The icy ooze seeped through the fabric, clinging to her skin like a second, foul skin.
Outrage, pure and incandescent, was her first coherent thought. It was a familiar refuge, the indignation of a goddess inconvenienced by a flawed universe. She tried to surge to her feet, to call upon the effortless, contemptuous strength that was her birthright.
Nothing happened.
Her limbs were leaden things, heavy and sluggish, refusing her will. A wave of dizziness washed over her as she pushed with arms that trembled from the pathetic strain. To simply roll off the rock and push herself to a sitting position left her gasping for air, her heart hammering with a weak, frantic, utterly mortal rhythm. Panic, a foreign and vulgar emotion she had only ever savored in others, began to curdle in her gut. Her power, her very physical superiority, was gone.
*A glamour, then. Just a simple glamour to cleanse this filth and restore my dignity.* She reached for her magic, the vast, deep well of Essence she commanded as a queen commands her treasury. She pushed with her will, expecting the familiar, exhilarating surge of power, the rush that could unmake a lesser demon with a look.
She found only a void. A terrifying, absolute emptiness where her power used to be. The connection was severed, the well was dry, the treasury was looted.
The failure was so profound it stole her breath, a psychic punch that left her hollowed out. As the shock receded, a new sensation bloomed in its place, far worse than the loss of strength. A deep, gnawing hollowness in her core. It wasn't the simple hunger of a mortal for sustenance. It was an active drain, a metaphysical leak, a subtle but constant pull from the universe itself. With dawning, sickening horror, she understood. She was a chalice with a hole in the bottom, her very life force bleeding out into the mud with every passing second.
A shimmering light coalesced before her, forming the immaculate, ethereal figure of her sister. Seraphine Vex stood radiant and intangible, her gown of woven starlight untouched by the surrounding filth. The smug, perfect curve of her smile was a deliberate and exquisitely cruel contrast to Veridia's state.
"Welcome, sister," Seraphine's voice chimed, dripping with a glee so sweet it was poisonous. She gestured to the empty, fetid air as if addressing a grand auditorium. "And welcome, all you lovely Patrons, to the series premiere of *Exile's Ordeal*!"
Veridia stared, the pieces of her new reality clicking into place with cold, brutal finality. She tried to form a curse, a withering retort, but only a dry rasp escaped her throat.
"Oh, don't give me that look," Seraphine tittered, her illusory form drifting closer. "You brought this on yourself. A star of your magnitude, preying on Lord Malakor's mortal pet? So tacky. So… last season. The Consortium decided you needed a re-education in relevance."
Seraphine made a grand, sweeping gesture. "The rules are simple, even for you. Your survival is now our entertainment. This dreary little mudball is called Aethelgard. It's teeming with the most delightful sources of Essence. All you have to do is… acquire it. Violently, preferably. It makes for much better television."
She paused, letting the horror sink in before delivering the master stroke. "But here's the best part, the feature that's already got the critics raving." Her smile widened, predatory and triumphant. "The Curse of the Sieve! See, we couldn't have our star getting comfortable, could we? Any Essence you take, you can't keep. It drains right out of you. This way, the stakes are *always* high! You're always hungry, always desperate."
Seraphine's eyes, bright with malice, raked over Veridia's pathetic form. "Remember your Golden Age? Lounging on shadow-silk, sipping on the terror of some trembling poet? That effortless power to unmake a rival with a glare? That was pride, dear sister. And pride, as they say, goeth before a spectacular, ratings-shattering fall. Look at you. The torn dress, the mud in your hair, that delicious little flicker of fear in your eyes… oh, this is going to be a hit."
Just as Seraphine was basking in her own monologue, a low growl echoed from the dense trees. It was a deep, predatory sound, intelligent and close enough to vibrate through the damp ground. For a brief, telling instant, something other than smug amusement flickered across Seraphine's face before she smoothed it back into a mask of professional delight.
A massive black wolf padded into the clearing. It moved with a silent, fluid confidence that spoke of absolute mastery of its domain. It was unnaturally large, its shoulders knotted with muscle beneath a pelt as dark as a starless night. But it was the eyes that held Veridia frozen. They glowed with a cold, calculating intelligence. This was no simple beast.
Then another pair of eyes appeared in the shadows to its left. And another to its right. The rest of the pack emerged from the gloom, silent as ghosts, fanning out to form a loose, inescapable semi-circle. They were smaller than their leader, but each moved with the same predatory grace. They were not a mob; they were a hunting party, and their focus was singular.
The Alpha, the great black wolf, took another deliberate step forward. Veridia recognized him from the deepest, most primal parts of demonic lore. Gravemaw. A thinking predator, an alpha of a strain thought to be legend, and it was sizing her up as the weak, pathetic prey she had become.
As the pack closed in, a new sensation prickled across Veridia's skin. It was an unnerving, all-encompassing awareness. The feeling of being watched. Not by the wolves, not by her sister, but by millions of unseen eyes. A psychic pressure, a collective voyeuristic gaze that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. The Censor-Symbiote was active. The show was live.
Seraphine's intangible form drifted to Veridia's ear, her voice dropping to a gleeful, conspiratorial whisper that only she could hear, a phantom sound against the backdrop of the pack's soft, menacing growls.
"Smile for the camera, darling. Your public awaits."