The Queen of the Vampires sat draped across the throne of bone and obsidian, deep within the hive's true heart. It was a throne untouched by time, carved from the ancient spires of bloodstone long before any of her court had been born.
But now, the walls seemed to close in.
Cracks in the hive's foundation whispered of betrayal, of enemies too bold, too close. Her fingers dug into the armrests as the icy silence of her throne room pressed in around her. The scent of smoke, stone, and charred memory still clung to her skin.
Her jaw clenched.
Her lair—her magnificent façade of power—had collapsed. Reduced to rubble and dust.
Because they had dared to attack her. Not at the hive's heart, but at its edge. A distraction, all of it. While she had been toying with Xavier like a cat with a dying rat, the true move had been made elsewhere.
It wasn't the destruction itself that angered her. It was what it meant.
Weakness.
Vulnerability.
A sign to the court that she could be outplayed.
