The throne would've suited her well, if it wasn't so chipped. But the black marble streaked in gold is a nice touch.
Sitting in the hollowed foundation of a throne room, the midnight beauty drags a taloned nail along the arm of her throne. One of her robed minions kneels before her, waiting. Let it wait.
Streaks of silver moonlight pierce through the holes in the ceiling, the viewing pool just two yards ahead of her. The oculus at the top of the dome mirrors the moon above, it's surface smoother than polished glass.
Michael shows tremendous control, considering his lack of formal training. She had witnessed that shield of fire and gold, spearing a small tether of her own magic into his; watching how it mended his bones on what would've been a severe fracture. How that shield of fire consumed the explosion; those flames looking like sparks compared to his power.
But still he knows little of what prowls beneath his skin.
The power he wields.
A beast waiting to be unleashed – and the only threat to her.
She was surprised to feel those onyx eyes of the elder troll staring at her. And she made a point to stab at the little creature with her own power.
A warning, for now.
"It would seem your little spells had worked." She finally speaks to the kneeling figure.
"Perhaps to well, My Liege?" the figure responds, keeping its head low. When she doesn't respond, it continues, "Too many were eagerly awaiting to cross through and into their new hosts. The number of dragur was, unexpected. Even close to disastrous."
"Perhaps." She says, tapping her nail on the arm of her broken throne. "We're going to have to limit how many can come through; but it was a success, nonetheless. Seeing how they adapted well they adapted to their new skins."
The figure nods, still keeping its head low. Its bony, gnarled hand barely visible in the moonlight. "And those are ones who are dead. What if we were to extend that reach . . . to the living, My Lady?"
"An interesting proposal. But for now, we keep pushing Michael and the queen."
The lady of the dark finally stands, the skirt of her dress hissing as it pools down the steps. But with one step forward, it snaps against her body and begins rippling behind her, as if it were liquid midnight. The figure doesn't move.
"Tonight's attack shows they're still learning the limits of their abilities. They still don't know what they're fully capable of, haven't reached their full level of power."
"What do we do, My Lady?"
The pale beauty reaches the viewing pool, placing her hands on its stone rim.
A spider's smile.
"Easy. We keep pushing them. They lack knowledge and control. The more we push, the easier it'll be to drain them. Perhaps even push them to burning out. Then we strike when they are weakest."
"Yes, My Lady. But didn't you have plans for the man? Michael?"
"I still do." She snipes. "But I am not ready. Neither is he. Keep preparing the runes, monitor the portals."
Pure dismissal.
The figure rises and bows before gliding out of the room.
Looking at the reflection, she bites her lip.
They still have plenty of work to do. Still plenty of experiments to try. There are many ways to raise an army of the dead, many more to create one from the living.
But all of it means nothing if Michael lives.
He's a hard man to find. The rebels taught him well.
For so long she could always hear that echo of power wherever she went. A dull, dull vibration through her bones; a skip of her heartbeat. Could barely feel that thin string of power that always seemed to tug at her rib; let alone try and follow it.
Now she's found him, and she won't let him slip away again.
Gods only know what's beneath his skin.
And gods help them all if it's ever unleashed upon this world.