If that bastard Hugh was still alive, Decay would kill him herself.
The goddess of rot and ruin soared gracefully above the landscape atop a massive white dragon, with her trusted assassin Cin perched behind her. The enthralled cloudrift dragon—Baloran, king of storms—obeyed every tap of her heels as she steered him toward her sister’s temple. The dragon’s vast wings beat rhythmically, slicing through the clouds with ease, until she commanded him to land.
As they descended, the golden wheat fields below them shivered, seemingly in reverence to the powerful trio and the tempestuous authority they brought with them.
Baloran’s landing was a spectacle in itself. With a final, thunderous flap of his wings, he touched down in the wheat field, the sheer force of his arrival causing a shockwave that rippled through the sea of stalks. The wheat around them quaked as if in fear, and as Decay and Cin dismounted, the once-lively field began to shrivel and die, leaving a ring of decay around their landing site.
Such was her immense power.
Standing in the eerie, circular patch of desolation, Decay surveyed their surroundings. In the distance, the imposing structure of Scorn’s temple taunted her, its harsh lines and dark silhouette a stark contrast to the now wilting landscape. Cin, ever the loyal companion, adjusted her stance beside Decay, her eyes reflecting the same determination and readiness.
Decay’s icy blue hair fluttered in the residual breeze of Baloran’s powerful wings, her eyes narrowing in contempt. Her pockmarked face—twisted by the magicks she’d consumed in ages long past—twisted in disgust at all the vibrant crops and vegetables below her.
All of the life.
Baloran, sensing the tension, let out a low, rumbling growl that echoed across the field. The wheat beneath his massive claws continued to wither, a visual testament to the power they wielded and the corruption they brought.
Decay’s mind was a whirl of emotions—spite, resentment, and a glimmer of anticipation. The proximity to her sister’s stronghold heightened her resolve. She clenched her fists, her shadow magic flickering at her fingertips, ready to be used at a moment’s notice. The once-fertile ground of the wheat field now served as a foreboding amphitheater, heralding the clash that was destined to come.
A battle of wit, perhaps, but a battle nonetheless.
“Wait here,” she ordered Baloran.
The enthralled king of dragons roared mindlessly, his eyes fogged over with her spell, but he ultimately nodded.
“Good dragon,” she said with a cruel smirk.
With a final, cold glance towards Scorn’s temple, Decay began to move. Each step she took left a trail of desolation, the earth beneath her feet succumbing to her presence. She couldn’t control what her aura did to the unprotected plants. She never could. It was hard enough to reign in her corrupting power enough to avoid killing her servants and mounts. The grass and wheat were the smallest victims to her powers, and by far the fewest.
Cin followed silently in her footsteps, the assassin’s vigilance unwavering.
Their arrival at the edge of Scorn’s domain was marked by a silence that promised chaos. The air was thick with the unspoken challenge between the estranged sisters. Decay and Cin stood as harbingers of a storm, ready to unleash their wrath upon the grounds of Scorn’s sanctuary.
In that moment, Decay’s heart was a tumultuous blend of rage and sorrow, her facade of cruelty masking the deeper wounds inflicted by her sister’s very existence.
“I despise these little visits,” Decay said under her breath. “My sister always has a way of annoying me.”
“As does Helga,” Cin agreed with a sidelong glance up at her mistress. “That orc can’t keep her mouth shut. Do you think that’s how word spread about the missing Remnant?”
“No,” Decay murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her half-bored glare scanned their surroundings for any signs of eavesdroppers, but the expansive crop fields on either side of the road stretched on forever, endless and silent. “We gave Hugh everything he needed, from the way in to the way out. And yet I still don’t have what’s mine.”
“Then something went wrong.” Cin’s reply was equally hushed. “Maybe she killed him, and one of his crew snuck off with it. Mortals are traitorous beings.”
“Fleeting lives,” Decay whispered absently, as if the words called her into a momentary daydream. “Here and gone, so quickly.”
“He must be dead,” Cin continued, apparently having not heard what her mistress had said. “He knew the consequences of taking it from you. He knows what I plan to do to him if he fails. He wouldn’t run, Mistress.”
“And yet he is gone,” Decay retorted, her tone laced with frustration and suspicion. “We must discover what happened. The Remnant’s potential is too great to lose.”
The conversation paused as they crossed into the central courtyard. As they closed the distance toward the main doors, they both stared up at the unsightly statue of a naked woman with a dragon wound around her torso. The abomination dominated the cracked stone and ancient rock spires that lined the entry to the temple.
Decay’s lip curled in distaste. “When will she destroy that hideous thing?”
“When the sun burns this decrepit continent to ash,” Cin muttered in annoyance.
Decay chuckled darkly.
As the two of them reached the massive fortress doors, Decay’s disappointment only grew when no one stepped out to greet them. No servants, trembling as they bowed. No torches, symbolizing the sacrifices once owed to her with each visit.
Just… silence.
“Scorn’s tantrum continues, I see,” she muttered to herself.
The stone walls loomed high and foreboding, casting a long shadow across the barren courtyard. The air was thick with a musty scent, like old books left to rot in a forgotten library. Not a single sound could be heard except for the faint whisper of wind through the cracks in the walls.
Scorn had not changed, it seemed, in the decades since they had last spoken.
As Cin raised her fist to bang on the door, a ripple of magic ran through the air. The assassin stiffened briefly, as though fighting a shiver as it ran through her body, but Decay hadn’t felt cold in millenia.
Sometimes, she missed those human sensations—but then she snapped from the nostalgia and usually destroyed something shortly thereafter.
The massive front doors to the temple opened without a sound. No creak of the hinge, no rush of air, just silence and the lingering fog of looming dread.
Decay rolled her eyes at her sister’s theatrics. They didn’t work on her or her own servants, so it was little more than a waste of magic.
That petty little fool.
The interior of the fortress was dim, its cavernous halls shrouded in an eerie gloom. The doors swung shut behind them, practically on their heels as they entered, but Decay did not hurry her pace. Her eye twitched in annoyance.
“You still underestimate me, big sister,” she said under her breath.
That woman would never learn.
Unfazed, she arched her back and lifted her chin in defiance as she continued toward the throne room, where she knew her sister would be waiting.
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As Decay glided through the corridor, the sconces lining the walls extinguished one by one, their cadence matched perfectly to the rhythm of her passing. Each dying ember cast her long shadow farther across the floor in the seconds before it was snuffed out completely.
This newfound darkness seemed to ripple outward from the void behind her, reflecting her somber mood. With each light that snuffed out, a chill spread, creeping along the stone walls and mirroring the shimmering hue of her hair.
Decay’s smirk was fleeting but purposeful, a subtle acknowledgment of her resilience to her sister’s nonsense. She relished these small acts of sabotage, as they were easy victories in a world where Scorn so often tried—and failed— to overshadow Decay’s formidable power.
The walls of the fortress, ancient and imposing, seemed to lean in, echoing the power struggles and whispering secrets of ages past. As she moved deeper into the fortress’s bowels, the air grew heavier, carrying the weight of untold stories and broken bones. Each step was deliberate, her shoes barely making a sound against the cold, stone floor. She was a specter of her own making, a shadow within shadows.
In this fortress, built as much by magic as by hands, her presence alone was enough to command an eerie respect. Despite her vindictive tendencies, Decay knew when to wear her cruelty like a cloak and when to conceal it beneath layers of frosty detachment.
She navigated her sister’s Domain the same way she did her own—with the precision of a tactician, her mind always a few steps ahead, calculating the cost and benefit of every flicker of emotion she allowed herself to show.
Scorn had no idea just how much influence Decay had built over all their centuries of immortal life, nor how much of that reach extended even to Scorn’s own lands.
Again, Decay smirked with wicked glee.
As she and her prized assassin approached the throne room, Decay’s heightened senses caught fragments of a tense conversation. She tilted her head slightly, straining to listen through the thick iron doors. Her sister thought the enchantments on these doors could mask the sound from anyone outside, but Decay always had a trick or two up her sleeve.
In the other room, Scorn’s voice was sharp and commanding. “...and you’ve done well, Helga. Return to Elysia, and take Gunn with you. He must prove himself worthy to stay here after his blunder.”
Curt.
Tense.
Angry.
Oh, how delightful. With Scorn in such a sour mood, getting under her skin would be even easier than usual. Decay repelled her sister’s awful influence over her emotions with an errant thought. It would not do to let her own mind get twisted by the fleeting urges of petty vengeance and piss-poor attitudes.
Scorn’s tone turned even more sinister. “This thief—this Cade Stormhollow—he can’t be allowed to develop his new power. You may show yourself this time, if doing so will hurry him along. A single misstep, and I want you to slit their throats.”
“Of course,” the orc’s husky voice replied through the thick doors. There was the rustle of steel over leather, and the heavy thud of orc boots stalked closer.
“Wait,” Scorn ordered.
The footsteps stopped.
“That assassin… what was his name? Otto?”
“Orro, I believe, Mistress,” Helga answered.
“Bring him to me alive.” There was a dark lilt to Scorn’s voice this time, and Decay could practically imagine her sister’s twisted smile. “It’s been ages since I’ve had a pet.”
For a brief moment, Decay glanced down at her own acolyte, and the two of them shared a knowing glance.
If Scorn wanted something—or someone—there was always a reason. Whomever this assassin was, he apparently was someone worth trailing.
“You know what to do,” Decay said under her breath as the doors slowly creaked open.
Cin merely nodded.
The doors opened effortlessly, without so much as a whisper to announce their movement. Decay stood at the threshold of the throne room, her presence demanding attention despite her slight frame. Her blue eyes narrowed as she surveyed the scene before her.
She stepped inside, her silent steps like a whisper across the marble floor. The throne room was vast, its walls made of dark, polished marble. Torches flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows across her feet.
In the center of the room sat Scorn, regal and unflinching on her throne. Her steel-gray eyes met Decay’s frosty glare, and for a moment, neither woman spoke. The tension in the room was palpable, each one waiting for the other to make the first move.
It was a duel Decay rarely lost.
“Hello, little sister,” Scorn eventually said, her voice laced with a dark warning. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Decay’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “Always delightful to see what new shades of black and gray you’ve used in your decor.”
Scorn frowned.
“Always so serious,” Decay chided with a lazy flick of her hand. “I’m joking, my darling.”
A lie.
“Why are you here?” Scorn snapped, her patience apparently thinner than usual.
It took effort, but Decay managed to suppress a victorious smile.
“Very well, then.” Decay clasped her hands together. “To business, I suppose. I’ve heard there was a theft from your temple. I came to ensure you are safe, and to offer assistance in the event you need to re-fortify your vaults.”
“How selfless,” Scorn said dryly.
“Indeed.” Decay tilted her head ever so slightly, barely able to restrain her mocking tone, though she let out a tiny morsel of her aura, withering the edges of the curtains along the far wall. “I can’t have anyone hurting my big sister, now can I?”
“Of course not,” Scorn snapped. “That’s your job.”
Decay didn’t take the bait. She didn’t show even a flicker of emotion, save for the slight narrowing of her eyes.
It was true, after all.
“I’m not in the mood,” Scorn said with a dismissive wave. “I don’t have the energy to deal with you, Decay. Get out.”
“How rude,” Decay said mockingly. “And here I am, just wanting to help.”
The goddess on the throne sneered. “I wouldn’t accept your help if the old gods themselves came for me.”
“Nonsense,” Decay said. “You’re clearly dealing with something terrible. After all, I couldn’t help but overhear your little strategy meeting with the orc. Planning another hunt, I see?”
Scorn’s merciless grin faded, and her eyes flashed briefly white with rage.
Decay didn’t budge. Her expression didn’t shift, nor did she so much as look away. She kept her sister’s gaze, and the two of them stood like that for several tense moments of silence.
“I won’t entertain this,” Scorn eventually said, breaking the silence. “Besides, I doubt you’re here for something to entertain your toys,” she added with a nod toward Cin.
“As if you don’t have toys of your own,” Decay said in a sickly sweet voice, gesturing toward the row of muscled acolytes along the wall behind the throne.
Scorn’s eyes narrowed, and she rested an elbow on one armrest as her glare worsened. “Why are you really here, Decay? Looking for something else to steal?”
“You’re still upset about that little trinket, all those centuries ago?” Decay’s tense smile never faltered. “I’ve changed, dear sister. You know that.”
“Rot never changes,” Scorn snapped back.
The tension between the sisters was palpable, each word a sharpened weapon. Scorn’s orc assassin stood between the two goddesses, and her hand inched toward the weapon at her waist. Somewhere along the walls, knuckles cracked. The soft swish of steel sliding along leather punctuated the brewing silence.
Cin, ever fearless, set her hand on the pommel of her sword. These fools had no idea the pain they would feel if they were foolish enough to attack.
It was something Decay, quite frankly, wanted to see. Maybe this time, she might let her servant kill the orc this time.
“Come, now,” Decay began, faking concern. “All the gods are speaking of the recent theft. They’re calling you weak. Some even claimed you were wounded by mortals. Am I supposed to simply sit idly by while you’re harmed?”
“That’s all you ever do,” Scorn said. “Why is this time any different?”
Decay clicked her tongue in disappointment, but didn’t say anything else. Right now, her sister was so close to revealing something useful. The weight of a stretching silence always sat heavily on Scorn’s shoulders, and she couldn’t stay quiet for long.
It was one of the goddess’s many weaknesses.
Scorn’s eyes narrowed. “I am well aware of the whispers, sister, but I can manage without your pity. I can replace what was taken.”
Oh.
Oh, how very interesting.
It took considerable effort to not widen her eyes in surprise. Decay focused on her breathing, ensuring it remained steady as she processed the unspoken implication of what Scorn had said.
There was another Remnant.
How utterly delightful.
Feigning innocence, Decay pressed on. “Cade Stormhollow,” she repeated, casually dropping the name Scorn had inadvertently revealed. “What did he take from you, Scorn? Should I be worried?”
With the briefest flicker of realization at her blunder, Scorn otherwise masked her irritation. “Worry about yourself, little sister.”
A threat.
“Leave,” Scorn ordered.
More out of petulance than anything else, Decay stood still. She met Scorn’s glare with one of her own before finally tilting her head once in mock reverence. With an elegant twirl, she turned her back on her sister and led Cin from the throne room. But she let her aura flare just one last time. A parting gift, for her dear old sister. The curtains rotted where they hung, sunlight spilling into the brooding darkness her insufferable sibling so preferred. Decay smiled cruelly as Scorn cursed in ten different languages, most forgotten by mortalkind, at her farewell vandalism.
The doors slammed hard behind them, and Decay walked the dark halls with a cocky grin.
“You know what to do, my darling,” she said to Cin in a hushed voice.
Cin’s smile was sharp. “Murder and mayhem, like always.”
“Indeed,” Decay said, her eyes glinting with malice. “Our two favorite things.”
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