The physical world was a muted, distant echo. The sharp scent of ozone, the bite of the wind, the solid feel of stone beneath her feet—all of it faded, replaced by a new, exhilarating symphony of senses. Veridia was no longer a body, but a perspective. A lens. The howl of the wind was a dull hum beneath the crackling, electric roar of the broadcast feed. She could feel it, a river of pure data flowing through her new consciousness, carrying the frantic, ecstatic attention of millions of Patrons. It was a heady, intoxicating current of raw, focused power. Better than Essence. This was control.
She could feel the live feed of her sister's frantic heartbeat, a panicked drum against the steady, thrumming baseline of the show's E-Rating. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.
As if on the far side of a thick pane of glass, she watched Seraphine shriek. It was a distorted, ugly sound as her shimmering, intangible form was seized by an invisible force, flickering violently like a faulty projection. The universe, it seemed, had suddenly remembered she was supposed to have weight, and it was calling in that cosmic debt with brutal, unforgiving force.
With a sickening, final lurch, Seraphine solidified.
The shock was absolute. She felt the sudden, crushing weight of a physical body, the brutal pull of gravity on limbs that had never known it. Her exquisite gown of woven light, once a testament to her untouchable status, tore and degraded, its photons scattering as it became filthy, tattered rags that scraped against her new, sensitive skin. She stumbled, her legs unused to bearing weight, and fell hard onto the stone floor. The impact was shockingly real, a blast of raw, grinding pain that shot up her spine and rattled her teeth.
Veridia, testing her new abilities, focused the broadcast's perspective. She willed the lens to move, and it obeyed without question. She pushed in, closer, closer, mimicking her sister's signature invasive move. The view zoomed in with unflinching clarity on Seraphine's terrified face—the cracked lips, the wide, disbelieving eyes, the single tear carving a path through a fresh smudge of dirt.
Her voice, when she spoke, was not her own. It was a perfect, venomous echo of the Host's persona, broadcast directly into the minds of her audience and, most importantly, into the frantic mind of her sister.
"Welcome back to 'Exile's Ordeal,' Patrons," she purred. "We seem to have a new contestant. She looks a little lost. A little… common. Let's see if she has any talent at all."
***
The numbers were a drug. Veridia watched the E-Rating meter in her conceptual vision not just climb, but shatter its own casing. The data-stream was a torrent of ecstatic, chaotic energy, a flood of pure validation.
*Kasian: "WHAT IS THIS?! I DIDN'T WAGER ON THIS! I LOVE IT! DOUBLE MY STAKE!"*
*Vesperia: "An unexpected development… how beautifully chaotic. The composition of her terror is divine."*
*Malakor: "…"*
His icon was a silent, black void in the roaring river of data, a pit of disapproval that only made the victory sweeter.
Ignis, the Sun-Scorched, stirred from his slumber. The sudden shift of energy, the new, potent scent of a warm, terrified, and now *leaking* demonic body, was an intrusion. His massive, leonine head lifted, his ancient, intelligent eyes opening. They passed over the empty space where Veridia had once lain and locked directly onto the new, trembling figure in his lair. A low, predatory growl rumbled deep in his chest.
Seraphine scrambled backward, her movements clumsy and panicked. The raw, physical reality of her situation was a crushing weight. She was flesh. She was weak. And she was hungry. A deep, clawing emptiness was blooming in her core, a hollowing-out where her fame used to be—the first touch of the Curse.
Veridia expertly framed the shot, pulling the perspective back to show her sister's pathetic, rag-clad form dwarfed by the majestic, rising beast. The contrast was exquisite art.
"Oh, a classic 'David and Goliath' setup," Veridia's voiceover dripped with saccharine amusement. "But I fear our David forgot her sling. This is the part of the show where our former host would mock the contestant's lack of preparation. So, Seraphine… any witty remarks? Or is it hard to be clever when you can feel your own soul leaking out?"
As if to punctuate the thought, Seraphine tripped over a loose rock, falling onto her hands and knees.
Veridia didn't hesitate. She triggered a slow-motion replay of the stumble, the image of her sister's undignified fall looping for the audience's pleasure. She even added a comedic *boing* sound effect, a cheap trick she knew Lord Kasian would adore.
The E-Rating meter exploded again. Kasian's approval icon flashed a brilliant, chaotic gold. Veridia then shifted the lighting of the broadcast, casting Seraphine's pathetic form in a tragic, silver light, the tears on her face glistening like jewels. Matron Vesperia's icon pulsed a deep, appreciative violet. This wasn't just hosting. This was production. This was art. She was playing her audience like a harp from hell, and they were singing for her.
***
The Manticore stalked forward, its intent as clear and sharp as the venom dripping from its barb. On the broadcast overlay, a new element appeared: Seraphine's Essence meter. It was already flashing a critical, pulsing red. The physical effects of the curse were setting in with terrifying speed. Her skin, once glowing with ethereal light, was now pale and clammy. Her breath came in ragged, desperate gasps.
She had no Boons. She had no allies. She had no power.
Seraphine looked around frantically, her eyes searching for an escape that wasn't there. The aerie was a cage of open air, and she had no wings. Her gaze shot upward, to the empty sky, to the invisible lens she knew was watching. Her expression, for a single, perfect moment, was a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred.
Veridia savored it. She zoomed in, capturing every detail of that impotent fury. Then, she let her voice drop, the mockery replaced by a soft, silken tone dripping with false pity. It was the final twist of the knife.
"It's a difficult choice, isn't it, sister?" Veridia whispered into the feed. "Pride or survival? To die on your feet or live on your knees. I wonder what you'll choose."
Ignis let out a final, impatient roar, a sound that shook the very foundations of the peak. It was a demand. A final call for tribute.
Seraphine's body trembled, wracked by a violent shudder. Her will, forged in the fires of ambition and spite, was finally broken by something far more primal: the raw, physical need for Essence. The gnawing hunger of the Sieve was an absolute tyrant that cared nothing for ratings or reputation.
Slowly, deliberately, every movement an agony of surrendered pride, she sank to her knees. She bowed her head, her forehead touching the sharp gravel in a gesture of absolute, unconditional submission to the beast. The ultimate humiliation, broadcast live for the entire demonic realm to witness. The camera held on the silent, powerful image of her total and utter defeat.