The void incursion on the ruined ramparts of the outer bastion was not something a lockpick could solve.
A pair of Void-Reavers—towering, multi-jointed entities of warped gravity and weeping black stars—had pinned Avelreese against the collapsed masonry. Her heavy shield was glowing white-hot under their necrotic beams, her boots skidding backward across the cracked stone.
Vyrneese had already shattered two broadswords trying to pierce the outer chitin. The steel had simply rusted to gray dust upon contact with the planar vacuum.
“Physical weapons are useless against planar density!” Zyneese called from the ridge, her ice lances shattering into harmless vapor against the lead reaver’s barrier. “Their mass exists partially in the Nether!”
From the rear supply line, fifty-eight-year-old Brasskeese stood with her arms crossed over her leather vest, tapping a manicured emerald fingernail against her brass pocket ledger.
She did not draw her daggers. She did not panic. She adjusted her spectacles with calm deliberation.
“A dagger reaches six inches,” she murmured, her sharp amber eyes calculating angles, force vectors, and planar decay rates. “Six inches of cold steel is cute against a cartel thug in a Bilgewater alley. Against cosmic debt collectors? It’s bad business.”
She reached into her heavy tool satchel, set down her pneumatic spanners, and pulled out an ornate, brass-clasped grimoire bound in dark Nether-silk. Beside it lay a slender fountain pen carved from consecrated Titan-brass.
“Reyneese,” she said without raising her voice.
“Yes, Brass?” the elder sister replied, breath steady despite the wind.
“Hold my earrings. I’m about to audit their soul.”
I. The Terms of Service #
She unclipped her signature heavy gold-and-brass hoops, placing them neatly into Reyneese’s palm.
Then, with the measured posture of a senior partner stepping into a hostile shareholder tribunal, she unbuttoned the worn leather coat and draped it over a supply crate. Beneath it was a tailored, high-collared coat of dark silk vestments—midnight fabric woven with interlocking brass filigree, stiffened cuffs, and concealed pockets.
Cloth. Pure, enchanted, lightweight cloth.
“What is she doing?” Lulureese whispered, peering over the barrier. “Did Brass just… change her outfit in the middle of a wipe?”
“She’s restructuring our asset portfolio,” Zyneese replied, watching the runes on the coat begin to pulse with cold, violet resonance.
Brasskeese—or rather, the woman stepping onto the charred flagstones—flipped open the grimoire. She didn’t chant frantic cultist incantations. She read aloud with the brisk, rhythmic cadence of a seasoned magistrate reading a foreclosure notice.
“Notice of Default. Planar Entity Classification: Void-Reaver, Unit Alpha and Beta. You are currently occupying Azerothian airspace without an authorized multi-planar transit visa.”
She dragged the brass pen across the first parchment page. A circle of glowing purple geometric runes snapped into existence around the feet of the lead reaver.
“Clause Twelve, Subsection B: Unlawful gravitational distortion incurs an immediate punitive tariff on soul-density.”
II. Compounding Interest #
A sickly green and violet radiance enveloped the lead monster. The creature bellowed—not from physical trauma, but from the sudden, catastrophic siphon of its core energy.
Agony. Corruption. Siphon Life.
Where other warlocks screamed in ecstasy or bled from dark bargains, she simply turned the page, calculating the remaining hit-point pool like an outstanding balance.
“Look at that,” she muttered, watching the combat meters. “Eighty-four percent efficiency. The damage-over-time curve is exponential. I should have switched to Affliction twenty years ago.”
The second Void-Reaver lunged toward her, claws extended to tear her frail cloth robes to ribbons.
She didn’t even take a step back.
“Emergency Transit Exception, Article Four,” she said calmly, snapping her fingers.
A shimmering violet Demonic Gateway tore open ten yards to her left. With a burst of spatial displacement, Avelreese, Vyrneese, and Lulureese were vacuum-pulled through the rift, landing safely behind a protective Fel-barrier while the monster’s claws slammed into empty flagstones.
From her belt pouch, she tossed three glowing, emerald crystals to the vanguard.
“Healthstones,” she ordered. “Chew them. If any of you dies today, the resurrection fee comes directly out of your quarterly allowance.”
Avelreese crushed the stone in her hand; warm restorative fel-light stitched her broken ribs together in seconds. “Brass… what are you?”
“I’m a businesswoman who realized steel doesn’t scale,” she replied smoothly.
With a final stroke of her pen, she severed the planar anchor. The Void-Reavers imploded with a hollow thump, their essence condensing into two perfectly cut, glowing violet Soul Shards that floated gently into her open palm.
She caught them, slipped them into a velvet coin purse, and latched the brass clasp.
“Accounts settled.”
III. The Rebirth of Caelneese #
When the ash settled, the warband gathered around the supply crates.
Reyneese stepped forward, holding out the heavy brass earrings. “So. The daggers are retired?”
“Sold to a vendor in Tanaris for fifty gold,” the goblin replied, taking the earrings and sliding them back into her lobes with a practiced click. “Daggers are for people who like getting dirty. From now on, we operate on contracts, logistics, and compound interest.”
“And the name?” Reyneese asked with a faint, warm smile.
The goblin adjusted her high-collared silk coat and tapped the brass-embossed cover of her grimoire.
“Brasskeese was a street-level fixer. Caelneese—that’s the architect who makes sure this family never runs out of bags, soulstones, or leverage.”
She looked across the five faces looking down at her—battered, exhausted, but alive and smiling.
Caelneese sighed, pulling out a fresh roll of parchment and adjusting her spectacles.
“Alright, disasters. Gather round. We’ve got three dungeons to clear, fifteen warband bags to craft, and the demon workforce needs their quarterly reviews. Let’s get to work.”