The surplus of Essence was a foreign, intoxicating warmth in Veridia's veins. It was a fleeting luxury, a brief reprieve from the gnawing hunger of the curse, and it was enough to let her pride unfurl from the tight, defensive coil it had been in. She strode into the echoing silence of Asterion's library not as a refugee, but as a victor returning from a successful campaign. The faint, silvery glow of Vesperia's boon still clung to her skin, a trophy of her latest performance.
"Still seeking validation from the livestock, sister?" Seraphine's voice, a venomous whisper only Veridia could hear, echoed in the stone quiet. "How utterly pathetic."
Veridia ignored her, focusing on the massive figure standing before an uncarved wall, his chisel and hammer resting at his side. Asterion turned his great head as she approached, his ancient eyes taking in her renewed state with a placid, unreadable expression.
"You see?" Veridia's voice was a silken thread of triumph. "I told you this game had rules. One simply has to be clever enough to exploit them." She gestured to her own radiant form, a silent rebuke to her sister's mockery. "A masterpiece of production, wouldn't you agree?"
She recounted the tale with relish, painting a picture of her own cunning. She described the chaotic, jarring teleportations from Lord Kasian's boon, framing them not as an assault she endured, but as a test she had brilliantly passed. She had given the Gambler the chaos he craved and, in doing so, had also created the perfect tragic tableau for Vesperia the Aesthete. Two powerful Patrons, satisfied with one masterful performance.
She expected awe. She expected the slow, rumbling approval of a creature who understood power.
Asterion was silent for a long moment, the quiet stretching until it became uncomfortable even for her. He offered no congratulations. He simply asked, "And what did they ask of you in return?"
Veridia scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. "Nothing. It was a gift. A reward."
The Minotaur's gaze was heavy with a pity that infuriated her. "They ask for nothing but the performance," he corrected, his voice the slow grind of stone on stone. "They did not give you a weapon. They paid you for a good scene. You are not their partner, little demon. You are their highest-rated employee." He gestured with his chisel, a silent command. "Follow me."
***
Veridia followed him deeper into the labyrinth, her arrogance warring with a new, unwelcome seed of doubt. The rhythmic tap of his hooves on the stone floor was the only sound. He led her not to a scroll or a tablet, but to a single, massive pillar that rose from the floor to the cavern's unseen ceiling.
Carved into the polished black stone was a warrior. A Minotaur, magnificent and terrible, his form blazing with an ethereal light that seemed to pulse even in the still rock. He wielded a spectral axe, its edge humming with captured starlight. The carving was so vivid she could almost feel the power radiating from it—the raw, undeniable presence of a Patron's Boon. The warrior was depicted in a moment of absolute triumph, his axe buried in the skull of a colossal, worm-like beast.
Veridia felt a flicker of recognition, of kinship. This was what power looked like. The pinnacle of spectacle. This was what she was fighting for.
Asterion's massive, calloused hand moved down the pillar, drawing her attention to the carving below. The scene changed. It was the same Minotaur, but the light was gone. His spectral axe was shattered, the pieces lying in the dust at his feet. He was on his knees, his great head bowed not to a foe, but to the empty air. The final carving showed him walking away from a battle, his shoulders slumped in a posture of utter defeat, leaving the broken shards of his borrowed power behind. He had not been slain. He had simply… quit.
A chill traced its way down Veridia's spine. "Who was he?" she asked, her voice a near-whisper.
Asterion turned to face her, and in his weary eyes, she saw the ghost of the glowing warrior from the carving. "He was a champion who believed his Patron's favor was strength," the Stone-Scribe rumbled. "He thought he was a player in their game. He was wrong." He paused, the silence stretching, heavy with the weight of ages. "He was me."
The words landed like hammer blows. He had been one of them. A star.
"Patronage is a gilded cage," Asterion continued, his voice low and resonant. "Their gifts make you dependent. They reward the behavior they find entertaining, shaping your every action until you forget who you are. You become the character they have produced. Your victories are not your own. They are scripted beats in a drama you do not control."
Veridia felt a hot surge of defiance. "Then what power is there?" she spat, the words a desperate defense against a truth she couldn't bear to accept. "The world is either kill or be killed! Their favor is the only weapon I have!"
*He's just a sad, broken old beast,* she thought, the jab a faint echo of Seraphine's voice in her mind. *He failed, so now he preaches failure to everyone else. His weakness is not my own.*
"The power of a Boon is fleeting," Asterion countered, his gaze sweeping across the thousands of runes that covered the walls. "The power of knowledge is permanent. They control the game because they know the rules and the other players. You only see the card they hand you." He gestured to the library around them, a silent testament to his words. "Their favor is a cage. The truth is a key."
***
She stood at the threshold of the library, the last rays of the setting sun casting the labyrinth's entrance in blood-red light. Asterion's words echoed in her mind, a dissonant chord against the familiar, driving melody of her own ambition. The thought of Seraphine's smug, ethereal face, of her mocking laughter, was a spur that drove her back toward the familiar path. Knowledge was a slow, patient weapon. She needed a sword, and she needed it now. The Boons were the only swords on offer.
Asterion joined her at the entrance, his immense form eclipsing the dying light. He did not look at her. His gaze was fixed on the distant peaks of the Slag Crown, now silhouetted against a bruised purple sky. He raised a massive, stone-dusted finger, pointing toward a single, jagged mountain that still held the sun's last fire, glowing like a hot coal. Mount Cinder.
"You believe your pride is a weapon," Asterion rumbled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to come from the earth itself. "Perhaps. But some creatures' pride is a beacon."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"On that peak dwells Ignis, the Sun-Scorched. A Manticore of the old world, whose arrogance burns hotter than the mountain's heart. A beacon attracts Patrons… and seals fates."
Veridia stared at the distant, glowing peak. A warning. A challenge. A stage. Her mind, despite the scribe's counsel, was already racing, seeing not a cage, but an opportunity. She knew the name of her next co-star.
"Oh, I love a good crossover episode," Seraphine purred from beside her, her voice dripping with anticipation. "This will be spectacular."
A cold, familiar certainty settled over Veridia. The audience was already waiting.