Despite the cool temperature inside the tent, sweat tickled her hairline, sending a shiver down her spine. Is it too late to turn back now? What if it doesn't work?

  What if the only reward for all her unimaginable atrocities was the cold permanence of death—her legacy a mere footnote to Venn’s savagery?

  She bit back the fleeting moment of existential doubt. No, I've come too far and given up too much.

  Slowly sliding her naked form under the surface of the tepid bath, her eyes met the lifeless stare of her mother, then her brother—distended corpses dangling by the ankles, barely a foot above the tub. As the last drops of blood fell from their yawning throats, the warrior-witch closed her eyes, submerging herself in the opaque crimson soup. Her skin tingled. Every inch felt the magical embrace of Orcus's recipe: the lifeblood of one unicorn, three holy enemies, and her immediate family. It was nearly complete.

  The twisted baptism emboldened her entitled hunger for power, crushing any momentary lapse in confidence. Her lungs burned, begging for oxygen, but she resisted breaking the surface prematurely, irrationally connecting her demonstrated commitment to the process with its likelihood of success. Finally, fireworks exploding behind her eyelids, she clawed the vessel’s rim, surging upright with a ragged gasp. Waves of claret splashed over the sides of the tub, gathering in small pools around the base. She opened her eyes. In the muted reflection of her dressing mirror, across the tent, two white discs of contrast against the deep red of her dripping torso stared back with fierce determination.

  Bloodbaths were a common intimidation ritual within her military tactics. The jarring visual of her frenzied crimson form, surging into the fray, announced by the hopeless wail of her death whistle, regularly broke her enemies’ spirits. Their dwindling resolve, coupled with her army’s swelling confidence, stoked the potency of her casting and rage to great success. But not today. Today’s bath served a very different purpose.

  Today, she would make no appearance. Today, they would meet a disastrous defeat. Outnumbered and outflanked, they wouldn't reach the Glimmerstones and the prize she coveted so fiercely. Rivulets of blood streamed down her body, rejoining the surrounding pool, as she pictured the nearby gnoll hordes of Siremiria already whittling down her loyal barbarians. Their only hope of avoiding slaughter was her signature arrival on the battlefield, but she would not join them. This was the final act of sacrifice the pact demanded. What could not be acquired with mortal might today would be secured with unbridled magical force in the next life. What were fifty years of servitude compared to true immortality?

  Her bare feet left bloody prints across the hides surrounding the ritual tub as the muscular warrior padded toward the circle of glowing glyphs carved into the nearby earth. Ignoring the muted din of battle raging in the distance, she perched cross-legged in the center of the inscriptions. Three carefully positioned objects lay within reach: a wooden scepter, a clay skull on a chain, and a flask of swirling liquid.

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  Familial blood dripped from her skin, forming an outline of what would be her final mortal resting place. After this, only two acts stood in the way of her eternal power: five decades bound in indenture to Orcus, and the artifact's recovery from the icy Glimmerstone peaks. From there, the conquest of Venn—perhaps more.

  Raising the scepter, a knowing smile creased the shadows on her face. Ghoulishly ceremonial, the tapered wooden shaft, mottled black from use, was intricately wrapped with the frayed intestines of long-dead enemies. Braided to its crown was a dull grey stone no bigger than a small child's fist. The stone's irregular shape, pockmarked and studded with rough, yellow, semi-transparent crystals, made it an unconventional choice, but she had insisted. No one else knew its secret, not even Orcus.

  She gazed at the full moon peeking through a narrow gap in the tent's gnoll-hide walls. Now or never. The small clay skull featured a tube protruding from the top of the head, attached to a gold chain threaded through a loop on the skull’s posterior—her death whistle. While the exterior design was primitive and crude, its hollow interior was intricately crafted into two chambers. Air blown through the tube created a resonance of pure despair, a haunting, distorted scream of pain and agony, somehow both human and otherworldly. On its own, the shrill wail manifested a foreboding sense of doom in every ear it reached. Enchanting it with a Fear spell made its impact utterly devastating.

  Subtle arcane glyphs and interior inscriptions served a second purpose: this whistle would be the vessel for her soul, vital to achieving immortality. She retched at the memory of consuming her own mother's heart during the preparation ritual, choking back the salty, metallic bile. At least our souls will always be together. The weak rationalization and the return of her burning desire for power propelled her forward.

  Placing the chain around her neck, the cool clay was familiar and calming against her wet skin. Its touch stiffened her resolve, brushing aside every remnant of hesitation. Her breathing deepened as the whistle's eye sockets pulsed with an unnatural green glow.

  She raised the flask, framing the full moon behind it, then considered its contents. A precise recipe of powerful poisons mixed with the venom and ichor of several dangerous creatures—the ultimate witch's brew. She would have less than two minutes after consuming it before her mortal life would end. This is it: success or death. No second chances. She mentally reviewed the necessary words and hand gestures one final time before tipping her head and raising the flask to her lips.

  The taste was even more foul than expected as she choked and gagged before emptying the small bottle and tossing it aside. Quickly connecting to the essence of her casting, she began to weave intricate gestures, her voice rising in a cadence of phrases from a language long dead. Streaks of fleeting green hung in the air, trailing her finger movements. The same glow began to pulse on the scepter's stone and, finally, in the whistle’s eye sockets. The cycle was complete.

  Her voice dropped to a whisper before her hand stilled, the magical glow receding first from her fingers, then the scepter stone, and finally the eyes of the clay skull around her neck. She felt herself slipping away. Mental blackness closed in from all sides as she slumped backward onto the tent floor. She clung desperately to one final, fraying thread of aspiration. I will return stronger. I will fulfill my destiny.

  And with that last thought, the Red Queen left the mortal realm.

  Thanks to the duplicity of demonic contracts, five decades of servitude became five centuries before Venn would be reminded of her brutal ambitions.