The climb was a performance in three acts. The first was misery. Veridia's boots, worn thin as paper, slipped on the loose scree that covered the mountain's flank. Each step was a carefully orchestrated struggle, a portrait of a spirit on the verge of collapse. She let her shoulders slump, her head hang, her breath come in ragged, hopeless gasps. The high, thin wind whipped at her rags, a razor's edge of cold that stole what little warmth her body possessed, and she shivered, not from the chill, but from the sheer, calculated effort of it all.
*A little to the left,* she thought, her eyes scanning the crumbling rock face. *Yes, that loose patch there. Perfect.* Her internal voice was a cold, sharp counterpoint to the whimpering creature she portrayed. She placed her foot deliberately on the unstable ground. It gave way with a satisfying cascade of pebbles. She cried out, a perfect, sharp sound of terror, catching herself on a jagged outcrop at the last possible second. The camera in her mind's eye zoomed in on her scraped, bleeding knuckles. It was excellent television.
As if on cue, Seraphine's shimmering, ethereal form materialized beside her, gliding effortlessly over the treacherous terrain. Her face was a mask of saccharine pity.
"Oh, darling sister," she cooed, her voice a silken broadcast to the eager Patrons. "To see you brought so low. All that pride, all that fire, reduced to this… a pathetic scramble up a desolate peak to find a quiet place to… end it all. It's a tragedy, truly. A poignant, ratings-shattering tragedy."
Veridia ignored her, focusing on the shimmering icon of the E-Rating meter in her mind. It was climbing, a frantic, incandescent spike of light. Matron Vesperia's influence pulsed through the feed, a wave of aesthetic approval for the heartbreaking beauty of the scene. A second pulse, this one crackling with chaotic energy, announced a massive wager from Lord Kasian.
*"She breaks,"* his voice boomed in her mind, a gambler's confident laugh. *"A million souls says she throws herself from the peak before the beast even gets to her. The ultimate, unpredictable finale!"*
*Good,* Veridia thought, forcing another tear to trace a path through the grime on her cheek. *Let them think the show is over.* She hauled herself over the final ledge, collapsing onto the summit's edge in a heap of feigned exhaustion. The stage was set. The audience was enraptured.
The aerie was a throne room of silence and bone. Veridia stumbled onto the wide, flat plateau, her performance of fragility a stark contrast to the savage majesty of the place. The ground was littered with the sun-bleached skeletons of lesser beasts, picked clean and arranged by the wind into monuments of a brutal hierarchy. The air was thin and cold, smelling of ozone and stone heated by a sun that felt impossibly close.
And there he was.
He was not the roaring, spitting monster she had expected. Ignis, the Sun-Scorched, rested on a high ledge, a king surveying his domain. His body was that of a great lion, scaled for a grander, more violent age. Leathery wings were folded at his back, and his scorpion's tail lay coiled, the barb a wicked, gleaming point of obsidian. He was utterly still, but the air around him hummed with a dormant, immense power, a bass note felt in the teeth.
He turned his head, and the ancient, intelligent face of a man regarded her. His eyes were not beast-like; they were old, filled with a deep, unnerving calm. He watched her stumble forward, and she felt his senses wash over her. He smelled the leaking wound of her Essence, the constant, pathetic drain of the Curse of the Sieve. But he did not register it as a challenge or a meal. To his ancient, elemental perception, it felt like a profound and unending sorrow, a flaw in the fabric of a being that should have been powerful. His curiosity was piqued.
Slowly, deliberately, the Manticore rose. It was not the explosive movement of a predator, but the considered motion of a monarch descending from his throne. He began to walk toward her, his heavy paws silent on the rock, his gaze inquisitive. The sheer scale of him was terrifying. A very real, very primal fear lanced through Veridia's gut, threatening to shatter her composure. She forced it down, locking her muscles, holding fast to the character she had created. The beast wasn't attacking. He was investigating the source of this fascinating sorrow. Her plan was working better than she had ever dared to hope.
As Ignis's immense form drew closer, Veridia played her final scene. She let out one last, shuddering sob, a sound of a soul utterly broken, and raised her eyes to meet his ancient gaze. Her face was a masterpiece of despair, an artist's rendering of a creature that had given up all hope and had come to this lonely place to die. She collapsed to her knees in the sharp gravel of the aerie, the stones biting into her skin. She did not flinch. She bowed her head, exposing the back of her neck in a gesture of absolute, willing submission. A perfect, helpless offering.
The Manticore's shadow fell over her, a sudden, chilling eclipse that blotted out the sun. His scent filled her senses—hot stone, ancient dust, and a faint, metallic tang of venom. Then, activating the boon, she let the perfect lie spill from her lips, her voice a heartbroken whisper carried on the wind.
"I have come to offer myself as a willing sacrifice… a tribute to the last true monarch of this world."
The lie struck home with the force of a physical blow. The low hum of power around Ignis softened, the tension in his massive shoulders easing. A low, rumbling sound, almost a purr, vibrated from his chest. His pride, ancient and vast as the mountain itself, drank in the words. He saw not a pathetic creature, but a subject making a final, fitting tribute.
He nudged her shoulder with his massive head, the gesture not gentle, but possessive. He guided her forward, onto her hands and knees. The coarse, hot fur of his flank rasped against her skin as he moved behind her, a mountain of heat and power. Her body tensed as the blunt, hot pressure of his thick, inhuman cock probed against her entrance. There was no seduction, only the straightforward, biological imperative of a king taking what was offered.
He pushed inside her in one impossibly thick, stretching invasion. A choked cry tore from her throat, a sound of both pain and the shocking fullness of him. He filled her completely, a stretching, branding heat that lit up every nerve ending. The princess of the Infernal Court, a creature of subtlety and seduction, taken by a Manticore on a sun-scorched peak.
The only sounds were the wet, rhythmic slap of his hide against her flesh and her own ragged gasps for air. He moved with a powerful, steady rhythm, a force of nature that demanded she yield. And she did. Her body, starved for the potent Essence he radiated, arched back to meet each deep, soul-shaking thrust.
*"Perfection!"* Vesperia's voice was ecstatic. *"The tragic beauty of her submission! The sublime power of the beast! This is art!"*
*"It's disgusting,"* Seraphine spat, but her voice was tight with fury at the soaring E-Rating. *"She's rutting with a monster for applause. How has she fallen this far?"*
The pressure built within Veridia, a tight, coiling knot of humiliation and unwanted pleasure. His thick length drove deeper, a relentless piston of flesh and magic. The power rolling off him in waves was intoxicating, a clean, fiery vintage of life force that made her own cursed, leaking soul scream with need. It crested, and her release slammed through her—a violent, shuddering spasm that arched her back and sent a scream of raw, animalistic pleasure echoing across the silent peak.
In that same instant, the Manticore's potent, ancient Essence flooded her system, a searing, brilliant torrent of pure, elemental fire. The beast's magic flared, and a silent, brilliant flash of golden light bathed the aerie.
The air stilled. Ignis withdrew, a rumbling sound of satisfaction deep in his chest, and turned to ascend back to his ledge, his tribute taken, his pride sated. Veridia trembled on the sharp gravel, her body aching, yet flush with a level of power she hadn't felt since before her exile. The gnawing emptiness of the Curse was gone, replaced by a deep, thrumming reservoir of pure, fiery energy.
The ratings meter in her mind was an exploding supernova.
Matron Vesperia's voice filled her mind, thick with genuine awe. *"A performance for the ages. It has generated a reward of unprecedented power. A boon funded by myself, Lord Kasian, and a dozen other Patrons, all united in admiration for this… spectacle."*
Seraphine's illusion flickered violently, her beautiful face contorted with pure, undiluted rage. *"No,"* she whispered. *"They wouldn't. They couldn't."*
As if in answer, a shimmering, crown-like object of black and gold light materialized in the air before Veridia. It pulsed with unimaginable power, a thing of pure narrative potential. It floated down and settled into her waiting palm.
Vesperia's voice announced the boon's name with the gravitas of a final judgment. *"For a performance that turned the star into the producer, you have earned the ultimate prize. It is called the **Host Swap**."*
Veridia's fingers closed around the boon. A slow, cold, and genuinely cruel smile touched her lips as she stared at her sister's terrified, fading image. The Manticore was a masterpiece, yes. But her next performance would be a premiere. And Seraphine would be the star.