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She was scattered. Bathed in darkness. Attuned to the sight of silence.

Caught in timeless being.

Star dust, endless black matter crawling into a glacial storm, cutting, bleeding, into her. Her from; void and now – something new.

That fateful surge and the chanting voices of those who thought they knew better.

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It was the chanting voices of those would now belong to her. Their will, their magicka, their emotions, their souls; all so delightfully fed into the Wolf Queen, drunkenly taken in her ravenous need to be again.

There was light.

There was sound.

Then a euphoria, once thought lost flowing again.

What beautiful fools these magi were.

– Then.

"Bind her to our will!"

Undulating into incomprehensibleness she writhed yet her exile to Oblivion had been too long; she couldn't resist outright.

In righteous furry, she ate from them, pulled from them, devouring what had been freely given, sinking into nebulous flesh cosmic fang and claw: gorging until their souls shrieked and their bones were nought but ash.

Yet their grasp upon themselves was strong and the Wolf was tired.

Scattered in time and space.

But it was not in her being to surrender.

She pulled again – and their strongest, perhaps the head summoner, latched on to the magicka pathway like a leach.

Sound vanished: Silence.

Then light.

Darkness.

A scream echoed though her mind: The Wolfs own wrathful howl?

In final defiance, she pulled back down the leader's connection to her, and miraculously something solid gave way. Cosy-warm satisfaction bloomed as she caught their soul from the aether –

Then another and – light – their blood pulsing, flooding, up through their own binding, their chains, into her. Flesh ripped and flayed – sound – as those foolish enough to bind the Potema herself were devoured; will and magicka, thought and emotion.

For the briefest of moments, she manifested.

She was naught more than a wisp –

But she could see. See the one who interfered, the one who released her.

See her beautiful vermilion eyes and their promise of violence. The hatred. Power rose from her, blistering the very air.

Potema dissipated.

Excitement: it pulsed though them both. Excitement from blood lust. Excitement from eldritch greed.

Excitement from the promise in her eyes… Potema that sight well. She had seen it in the mirror so often in her youth.

The Wolf Queen knew, if she fled from here, this hunter would follow.

And then all of space trembled.

The voice…

Her hunter's voice…

Tender and powerful. Assertive and mighty. An opponent who knew her place in the world to be atop all others. And it was smiling…

Potema sensed this – could read it in her being – and found it to be delightful.

Dovahkiin…

Dragonborn.

This woman was linked in some form to the God Tiber Septim; they were a binding to the Septim dynasty…

An undeniable, rightful, claimant for the heart of the empire. For one such as Potema, exiled and reviled by the end of her rule and into her death this, this hunter, represented the opportunity to rise fully again. An avenue to the height of her power and beyond.

A rival to the current emperor or empress. And the possibilities that could follow Potema's ascension?

Even in this her current state of coalesced star dust, her face flushed, her mind unleashed and imagination racing.

Did this Dragon realise her potential? Know what doors she could open, what locked boxes she was key to?

And her voice had been powerful. This woman was no monk, no castrated scholar. She was a warrior. She had moved through the bowels of that strange keep, painting herself red and black, and smiled at her newest foe.

She was fury, and the Wolf Queen desired it. She would teach her Dragon her place – where she truly belonged in this world – her Dragon would come to see, would need to understand.

She would become her vengeance.

The Wolf Queen spread her being, magicka flowing from her as the gifted souls of her summoners broke into pure energy, into light and sound and will.

Their struggle would be sweet.

The bodies of her long dead council tensed, their bones groaning, garments rasping, as they stood and looked to their queen. Looked to the rightful queen of Solitude, rightful empress of Tamriel, and quaked.

Her Dragon would be sweet.