The wind on the plateau was a physical thing, a wild spirit that tore at Veridia's rags and whipped her hair across her face. Two silent centaur mares, their movements as fluid and powerful as a river's current, led her into the heart of a massive circle of weathered standing stones. The ground beneath her bare feet thrummed with a low, ancient power, a vibration that resonated in her bones, and the Curse of the Sieve throbbed with a strange, hungry anticipation.
Chieftain Voron Sagewind stood before the largest megalith, a monument of muscle and hide silhouetted against a sky bruised with the violent purples and oranges of dusk. At equal intervals around the circle, six other centaur warriors stood motionless, their equine bodies as still as the stones they guarded, their muscular chests bare to the biting wind. Their silence was a weapon, more intimidating than any war cry.
"Oh, darling sister. A throne of mud, and now an altar of stone. You do have a flair for the rustic." Seraphine's shimmering form appeared at the edge of the circle, her voice a poison dart of condescension. "The Patrons are eating this up. They adore a good bit of primal pageantry."
As if on cue, Voron Sagewind began a low, rumbling chant. It was not a sound of words, but of the earth itself—a groan from the deep stone that the other warriors echoed, their voices layering into a deep, vibrating hum that filled the air and pressed in on Veridia from all sides. The mares ripped the last of her rags from her body, leaving her naked and exposed in the center of the circle. The cold wind was a thousand tiny needles against her skin, a stark contrast to the seven pairs of dark, unblinking eyes that burned upon her. She forced herself to remain still, a statue of defiant marble, her mind a fortress of cold calculation. This was a performance. Her greatest one yet.
***
Voron Sagewind approached first, his steel-shod hooves silent on the packed earth. His movements were slow, deliberate, each step a testament to his absolute authority. He was not a beast driven by lust but a high priest enacting a sacred rite. He stopped before her, the sheer scale of him blocking out the dying sun. The scent of him was overwhelming: clean sweat, sun-warmed horsehide, and the wild, clean scent of the plains.
He lowered his massive torso, his human hands—calloused and strong—cupping her jaw and tilting her head back. His gaze, while not cruel, was absolute. This was not a negotiation. It was a claiming. He pushed her back against the central, flat-topped altar stone, her body arching to accommodate his. The first penetration was a slow, powerful, almost reverent invasion, a stretching, filling pressure that stole the air from her lungs. He moved with a deep, measured rhythm, each thrust a tectonic shift within her, an act of symbolic possession on behalf of his herd. Veridia bit down on a scream, her nails digging into the cold stone beneath her. She endured, focusing every ounce of her will not on the act, but on its effect. A trickle of Essence, potent and pure, flowed into the void of her soul.
*Good. The E-Rating is climbing.*
As Voron stepped back, his duty done, the chosen warriors approached. The ordeal began—a relentless, overwhelming flood, a testament to the legendary stamina of their race. They were not chaotic or savage; they were disciplined, moving with a practiced, seamless rhythm as she was passed from one to the next. The first warrior's possession was a battering ram of pure, unadulterated power, his body a mountain of muscle. The second was a relentless, driving piston, a test of endurance that pushed her body to its absolute limit.
Her mind, threatening to shatter under the physical onslaught, clung to the one thing she could control. She visualized the broadcast, the unseen Patrons: Lord Kasian roaring with laughter at the sheer, beautiful chaos of it all; Matron Vesperia sighing with aesthetic pleasure at the tableau of a fallen princess, spread-eagled and claimed under a wild sky, a masterpiece of beautiful, tragic submission. The humiliation was the fuel. The degradation was the currency. And with each powerful, plunging thrust from the centaurs, the tide of Essence rose, a torrent of life force so potent it was almost painful. Her body was a stage, and this was her command performance.
The ordeal culminated as Voron Sagewind returned, flanked by the six warriors. They surrounded the altar, their presence a suffocating wall of heat and power. The chieftain mounted her one last time, his movements now a furious, driving rhythm, and at his signal, the others joined him, their hands and mouths claiming what parts of her they could reach. It was a deafening, overwhelming crescendo of power, a unified act of possession that flooded her with an almost unbearable torrent of high-quality Essence. The sheer volume of it strained the Curse of the Sieve to its breaking point. Her consciousness flickered, lost in the storm of sensation and power, her last coherent thought a silent, triumphant scream as the very fabric of the show's reality bent to the sheer spectacle of her debasement.
***
Veridia lay spent on the cold stone, every muscle a dull, throbbing ache, but her soul was a buzzing hive of power. The centaurs had retreated to the edge of the circle, their ritual complete, their demeanor calm and stoic once more. The massive influx of Essence was already leaking away, a steady, familiar drain, but for the first time since her exile, she was full, the desperate, gnawing hunger silenced by a profound, if temporary, satiation.
Seraphine's voice, when it came, was strained. The practiced mockery was gone, replaced by a raw, undisguised envy that was more satisfying than any physical pleasure. "Well… that was certainly… epic," she managed, the word tasting like acid in her mouth. "The ratings are astronomical. The Consortium is ecstatic. You've become quite the star, sister. A star of the gutter, perhaps, but a star nonetheless." Her illusion flickered and vanished, the final words hanging in the air with the sharp edge of a declaration of war. She was no longer just an asset; she was a rival.
As the last echo of her sister's voice faded, the air in front of Veridia shimmered violently. The spectacle had been too great, the ratings too high. This was not a simple Essence packet or a spectral blade. An object materialized out of the shimmering distortion, glowing with a dark, contained power. It was a small, intricately carved scroll, bound not with ribbon but with a single, pulsing strand of shadow. The seal was not wax, but a drop of solidified darkness that bore the intricate, unfamiliar sigil of a Patron she had never seen before. The title, burning in flickering demonic script across the scroll, made her breath catch in her throat.
*The Pact of Mortal Influence.*