The transition was not a journey; it was a schism. One moment, Veridia was a projectile of pure desperation, throwing herself into a chaotic tear in reality. The next, she was kneeling on polished obsidian, the violent, nauseating smear of the portal collapsing behind her with a sound like a thunderclap.
Silence.
Then, the familiar symphony of home crashed over her. The air was thick, not with the smell of damp earth and rot, but with the intoxicating perfume of ozone, spilled ambrosia, and the sharp, papery scent of burning soul-contracts. A thousand whispers slithered through the air—the sibilant hiss of deals being struck and secrets being sold. It was the sound of the Whispering Bazaar, a chaotic, predatory marketplace she knew better than her own reflection.
A euphoric shock jolted through her, so potent it was almost painful. This was not the crude filth of Aethelgard; this was the sophisticated, beautiful filth she understood. This was a world of rules, of loopholes, of leverage. A surge of her old self—the princess, the predator—returned, and for the first time in an age, her blood sang with power instead of fear.
Her clothes were rags, her face smeared with mud and dried blood, but as she rose to her feet, her posture was that of a queen. The lesser demons and spectral merchants of the Bazaar gave her a wide berth. Their countless eyes assessed her tattered state, but something in her bearing held them at bay.
All but one.
A Pact-Vulture, a hunched creature with skin like dried parchment and eyes that glowed with avarice, scuttled toward her. It fed on the scraps of broken deals, a bottom-feeder of the demonic legal system. It saw her mortal attire and smelled a victim.
"Lost, little morsel?" it rasped, its voice like grinding stones. "The ways of Dis are treacherous. For a small price, a mere sliver of your future potential, I can offer… guidance." It smiled, a predatory gesture that revealed rows of needle-sharp teeth. It was a standard contract, designed to enslave the unwary.
Veridia did not reach for the goblin dagger at her hip. She simply smiled. It was a cold, sharp, unfamiliar thing on her face, a baring of teeth that held no warmth, only the promise of a swift and painful end. She leaned in, her voice a low whisper meant only for the Vulture.
"Are you offering me a contract in violation of the Umbral Covenant, article four, which forbids the solicitation of the newly arrived before a full cycle's passage?"
The Vulture's bravado evaporated. The glow in its eyes flickered and died, replaced by pure, stark terror. That law was ancient, archaic, and universally ignored, but to name it meant she knew the old ways, the true laws that carried real, permanent consequences. It meant she was not a victim. She was a judge.
The creature didn't speak. It simply dissolved back into the shadows of the Bazaar, leaving her standing alone, the ghost of that predatory smile still on her lips. She was home.
Veridia moved through the chaotic currents of the Bazaar with a purpose she hadn't felt in months. She ignored the stalls selling bottled screams and minor hexes, her eyes scanning for the tell-tale shimmer of woven shadow-silk that marked the dens of information brokers. She found it in the darkest corner of the market, a stall that seemed to swallow the light around it.
She pushed through the heavy curtains. Inside, the air was still and cold. A multi-faced entity sat behind a stone table, its many eyes blinking out of sync. One face was a beautiful woman, another a snarling beast, a third a weeping child. The Broker.
"I seek knowledge," Veridia said, her voice steady.
The beautiful face smiled. "Knowledge has a price. What do you seek?"
"The location of the Heart of the Betrayer."
The beastly face let out a low, guttural laugh. "A relic of the First War? The price for such a thing is a Duke's ransom. Your rags suggest you lack the toll, little exile."
Veridia's eyes narrowed. She had no soul-coins, no assets to trade. Only the truth. "I have a currency no one else in Dis can offer. Fresh intelligence from the mortal realm. From the show."
The Broker's many faces all focused on her, their expressions shifting from dismissal to intrigue. "Speak," the child's face whispered.
"Lord Kasian's latest wager," Veridia began, her voice crisp and clear. "He backed a Manticore against me, a sure thing. I seduced it. The broadcast was… spectacular. He lost not only his stake but a century-pact with Matron Vesperia, who found his choice of beast aesthetically bankrupt."
The Broker fell silent, its many eyes calculating. That was a secret that could shift political tides, a piece of gossip worth a fortune on the influence markets. It was fresh, it was damaging, and it was undeniably valuable.
"A fair trade," the beautiful face finally conceded. "The Heart of the Betrayer is the centerpiece of the Asmodean Lust-Cult's private collection. It is housed within the Grand Temple, in the political sector." The Broker paused, then added the final part of the payment. "But know this: the Cult values spectacle above all else. The front door is harder to get through than the back, but the back is only open to those providing the evening's entertainment."
The deal was done. Veridia gave a slight nod and left the Broker to its shadows and its valuable new secret.
She found a high vantage point atop the spire of a forgotten monument, looking down upon the political sector of Dis. The Grand Temple of the Asmodean Lust-Cult dominated the landscape. It was not built, but grown, a masterpiece of living obsidian and shadow that seemed to pulse with a slow, rhythmic, crimson light. At its gates, guards stood clad in black chitinous armor that seemed fused to their very flesh, their stillness more menacing than any movement. The entire structure radiated an aura of decadent, absolute power.
This was not a goblin hovel or an Orc war-camp. This was a fortress of true power, a puzzle box of lethal intricacy. And looking down at it, Veridia felt no fear. She felt a cold, thrilling surge of ambition. She analyzed the defenses, the flow of supplicants, the blind spots in the guard patrols. This was a heist fit for a queen. This was a game worthy of her.
She savored the moment, the cold thrill of ambition a more welcome warmth than any sun. Then the air nearby tore open.
It was not a clean portal. It was a sputtering, violent vortex of mud-brown and sick-green energy, a chaotic, uncontrolled rip in the fabric of the planes. It vomited its contents onto the polished obsidian street below with a wet, undignified crash.
Seraphine.
She was tangible, solid, and covered in filth. She landed in a heap with a half-dozen of her Orc warriors, Warlord Grummash Bonebreaker among them. They scrambled to their feet, a mess of mortal leather, crude iron, and utter confusion. The Orcs stared, their eyes wide with the animal terror of beasts caged in an impossible, alien cityscape. And Seraphine, for the first time Veridia could ever remember, looked utterly, pathetically lost.
Veridia watched the chaos unfold below, a perfect, stark contrast to her own poised control. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, the first she had felt in an age.
*So much for a quiet infiltration,* she thought, a flicker of cruel amusement dancing in her eyes. *The circus has followed me to hell.*