The air in the Whispering Bazaar tasted of power. Veridia inhaled it like a starving woman given a feast—a rich perfume of ozone, burning soul-contracts, and the metallic tang of ambition. After the bland, muddy stench of Aethelgard, it was the scent of home. She was a ruin of her former self, clad in a glamour that shimmered with the cheapness of a borrowed thing, but she walked through the chaos with the straight-backed certainty of a predator returned to its hunting grounds.
Her first target was a chittering imp perched atop a stall of bottled whispers, its multifaceted eyes scanning the crowd for easy marks. Instead of approaching with a threat, Veridia offered a slight, respectful inclination of her head.
"Your perch gives you a view of all the currents, little master," she said, her voice a low, honeyed purr. "I imagine a creature of your discerning eye sees the truth of things long before the great and powerful."
The imp froze, its chittering ceasing. It was used to being kicked, threatened, and dismissed. Respect was a foreign currency, and infinitely more valuable than coin.
Veridia manifested a single, perfect soul-coin. It wasn't metal, but a sliver of pure, concentrated influence that glowed with a soft, internal light. She placed it on the counter. "A small toll for a moment of your expertise."
The imp's eyes widened. It snatched the coin and practically vibrated with eagerness. "The artifact," it hissed, its voice a conspiratorial whisper. "The one for the Rivalry Finale. It's held in the Vault of the Unseen, under the eye of the Baatezu Guard. But the Vault Warden, a brute named Kythax, drinks his evenings away at The Gilded Cage. He is a creature of habit… and ego."
Veridia's smile was a sliver of ice. "Perfect."
She found her next mark minutes later: a minor Duke, his aura a pathetic flicker of entitlement, fuming after being snubbed by a higher-ranking noble. Veridia drifted to his side, her expression one of profound sympathy.
"To be so understated in one's power is a rare and dangerous thing, my Lord," she murmured. "Lesser demons are blinded by gaudy displays. They fail to see the true strength that lies in quiet confidence."
The Duke puffed up, his chest swelling with wounded pride. "Precisely! They see only the title, not the lineage! Not the crushing responsibility I bear!"
"I see it," Veridia lied smoothly. "It is a weight you carry with remarkable grace."
He was putty in her hands. To impress this strange, insightful noblewoman, he began to boast. "They think their little trinkets are safe," he scoffed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "But the Warden, Kythax, is a pompous fool. Spends his nights at The Gilded Cage, getting drunk on soul-wine and boasting to anyone who'll listen about the vault's new chronomatic locks. As if a drunkard's pride is a better security measure than silence."
Veridia feigned a gasp of impressed shock. "Such a keen strategic mind you have, my Lord." She excused herself moments later, leaving the Duke preening in her wake, the information she needed offered up on a platter of his own vanity.
The Gilded Cage was a den of quiet menace and expensive sin. The bouncer, a hulking, four-armed demon, blocked the entrance. Veridia didn't try to push past. She simply let another soul-coin materialize in her palm. "A quiet table," she said, pressing it into his hand. "In the shadows. I wish to see, not be seen."
The bouncer's eyes widened at the purity of the coin. He gave a curt nod, the unspoken agreement of discretion passing between them. He led her not to the crowded main floor, but to a small, curtained alcove on a raised dais, a perfect vantage point overlooking both the tavern and the street beyond. She ordered a glass of soul-wine, the dark liquid swirling with captured motes of despair, and settled into the shadows to wait. The game was afoot, and she was playing it perfectly.
***
Seraphine stalked through the Bazaar, a storm of fury and frustration. The stink of this place was an assault, a chaotic mess compared to the sterile, controlled environment of her broadcast studio. Behind her, Warlord Grummash Bonebreaker loomed like a thundercloud, his massive form drawing fearful glances that Seraphine mistook for respect.
She spotted the same chittering imp Veridia had charmed. This was not a negotiation. It was an interrogation.
"You," she snapped, her voice sharp with impatience. "I require information. Now."
Grummash took a single, menacing step forward, his shadow falling over the imp like a guillotine. The creature squeaked in terror, but a flicker of pure, spiteful insult flashed in its eyes. To be treated with such crude disrespect, like a mortal servant, was an offense to its station.
"I… I know nothing, great lady!" it stammered, pointing a trembling claw down a dark alley. "But the Horned Devil there… K'tharr… he knows all the city's secrets!"
Seraphine didn't wait for a thank you. She swept toward the alley, Grummash trailing in her wake. The Horned Devil was a mountain of muscle and obsidian scales, his body a canvas of legal tattoos that declared his status and his right to be here. He was leaning against a wall, cleaning his claws with a wicked-looking dagger.
"You," Seraphine commanded, her tone dripping with the arrogance of an untouchable host. "Tell me where the finale's artifact is kept."
K'tharr looked up slowly, his eyes narrowing. He took in her mortal-realm attire, the brutish Orc at her back, the sheer, unmitigated gall of her demand. He spat a gob of black ichor onto the ground near her feet.
"I tell you nothing, little ghost," he growled, his voice like grinding rock. "Crawl back to the mortal realm. You still smell of its mud."
Rage, pure and incandescent, flooded Seraphine's senses. This was not how it was supposed to work. They were supposed to fear her. "Grummash," she hissed, her voice trembling with fury. "Teach this beast a lesson in respect."
The Orc needed no further encouragement. He lunged forward and shoved the Horned Devil hard. K'tharr roared, not in pain, but in righteous fury at the public challenge. He dropped his dagger and slammed a massive, scaled fist into Grummash's jaw. The sound was a wet, heavy crunch.
The alley erupted. Grummash bellowed, swinging his axe in a wide, clumsy arc that K'tharr easily dodged. The Horned Devil was not just strong; he fought with the confidence of one who knew the law was on his side. He sidestepped another wild swing and drove his horned head into the Orc's gut, sending the Warlord stumbling back.
A sharp, piercing whistle cut through the din. It was a sound that made the entire Bazaar fall silent. From the end of the street, two figures marched forward. They were Baatezu Guards, clad in immaculate, overlapping plates of black iron armor, their faces hidden behind merciless helms. Their eyes glowed with the cold, unforgiving fire of pure, legalistic authority. They were not here to break up a fight. They were here to enforce a sentence.
From her shadowed table in The Gilded Cage, Veridia took a slow, deliberate sip of soul-wine. Across the street, the beautiful, chaotic mess unfolded. Her sister, tangible and furious, was knocked to the ground by a backhand from the Horned Devil. Warlord Grummash Bonebreaker roared, struggling against a creature who fought with the full protection of the city's laws. And, most importantly, two Baatezu Guards were approaching, their heavy, rhythmic steps a promise of brutal, efficient order.
Veridia watched it all with a serene, deeply satisfied smile. The show was about to get so much better.