One leg crossed over the other.
Pink eyes burning like dying stars from a face shrouded in shadow, and those eyes were looking down at the invader the way one looks at an insect that crawled onto one's dinner plate.
Nyxara sat on her throne in the deepest reach of the vessel she had claimed long before this piece of scrap metal ever touched his palm, and the killing intent that radiated from her hit the blade's will before her voice did.
Every tendril of the relic's hunger froze in place.
"Do you have any idea," her voice rolled through the vessel, low and shaking with a rage so tightly leashed it vibrated, "what you have put me through today?"
The blade's will tried to recoil. The presence on the throne didn't let it.
