To the present

Silence.

The cacophony of rage and torment that had clawed at her mind vanished, devoured by an endless void that stretched in all directions. Even time seemed to falter, each moment suspended like a droplet on the verge of falling, trembling with anticipation. Then, with a lurch that twisted her perception inside out, she was dragged backward through fractured instants, each memory snapping into place as they unraveled toward the present.

The throne of obsidian reformed before her, its jagged silhouette resolving from a blur into the shape of a kneeling soldier, sculpted in black glass and veined with faint violet light. A crossbow bolt screamed backward through the air, trailing a ribbon of distorted space as it slipped cleanly into its master’s weapon. Strands of silver hair shimmered and bled into prismatic hues, refracting into a cascade of colors as lightning recoiled into itself, collapsing into writhing blue vipers that hissed with fading energy. Aluziira strained against the current, her will pressing outward as she clawed for clarity within the unraveling scene.

Limbs that had been torn apart flowed like dark water, knitting themselves back into bodies with unnatural grace. Shattered forms regained cohesion, flesh sealing over bone as blinding motes of essence surged inward, reigniting life in hollow shells. A deep, guttural rumble rolled through the chamber, vibrating through her very being as crimson lines flared across the marble floor, carving a lattice of glowing sigils that pulsed like a living heart. The enemy Drow, the elite of the Despzynge, moved with **** precision, their silhouettes flickering as they sought escape from the tightening snare of a magical trap.

The air ruptured.

A violent bloom of gore burst outward as a massive chitinous pincer tore free from a concealed ritual circle, its serrated edges slick with fresh viscera. Blood spattered across pillars and banners, painting the chamber in wet arcs of crimson. High-pitched cackling rang out, sharp and familiar, cutting through the chaos like a blade. Aluziira twisted toward the sound and found her parents upon the dais.

The Matron Mother stood drenched, her form glistening beneath layers of blood and ruin that clung to her skin like lacquer. Her arms were thrown wide, fingers splayed so violently that joints had slipped and bent at unnatural angles, yet she held them there, trembling with fervor. From the center of her chest, something wrong slithered outward, not shadow but absence, a void given shape, its tendrils slick and hungry as they writhed through the air.

Her laughter was swallowed by a roar that shook the chamber, a sound torn from depths that knew neither mercy nor restraint. Within the glowing pentagram, a massive form solidified, its presence dragging heat and pressure into the room. The demon’s body coalesced from smoke and ember, muscles bulging and shifting beneath skin that seemed to drink in the light. Four arms flexed with predatory strength, the upper pair ending in massive pincers that clicked together with a sound like splitting bone. Its canine visage twisted into something mocking, eyes burning with ancient malice as they swept across the carnage before settling upon the Matron Mother. His thick black sheath twitched at the sight of her and his heavy, plump testicles that pulsed with infernal seed.

“I knew my favourite bitch had been needing my cock, craving another whelp in her,” the Glabrezu rumbled, its voice thick and amused, like stones grinding together. The heat radiating from it carried the stench of brimstone and old blood. Its gaze narrowed as it took in the void unraveling her. “That now seems… unlikely…” For a fleeting instant, the demon’s face warped, overlaid with the familiar features of Sorndyn, a ghostly echo flickering across its monstrous visage.

Father stiffened at the brazen talk about his wife, the air around him tightening as he moved with practiced precision. His hands wove through complex sigils, threads of shimmering **** layering over one another to reinforce the barrier that encased them. The shield rippled like liquid glass, catching stray sparks and fragments of magic as they struck. His focus never shifted to the braggadocios demon. Instead, his gaze locked onto the regrouping enemy, cold and calculating. With a flick of his wrist, thin shards of ectoplasmic energy screamed through the air, impaling three retreating soldiers and pinning them to the floor in a spray of dark blood.

“I… I feel Her!” The Matron Mother gasped, her voice breaking with fervent awe as another tendril of that inky void **** its way free, wriggling like something alive. “Oh, Queen of Spiders!” Her body convulsed, veins standing out as bulging shadows writhed beneath her skin before sinking inward, devouring her from within. “Bless you a thousand times for accepting our sacrifice!”

Siemothrux, Sorndyn's father, inclined his head, the gesture small yet reverent, as though acknowledging something far greater than the carnage before him. His nostrils flared, drawing in the thick scent of blood and **** as though savoring it.

“Very well,” the demon growled, its voice lowering into something almost intimate. “I would have liked to have feasted upon you one last time. But I can savour the memory of your **** for eternity.”

The glowing lines that bound it faltered, then vanished entirely, their light snuffed out like dying stars. The remaining Eilsana soldiers shifted uneasily, their formation breaking just enough to give the creature space as it stepped fully into the material world. Each movement carried weight, claws scraping against marble as heat shimmered in its wake. A shard of ice tore through the air and struck its side, shattering against its hide with little more than a hiss of steam.

Emptiness bored into Aluziira’s mind with merciless precision, wrenching her vision toward the dais. Mother’s gaze met hers, ruby eyes blazing, yet utterly hollow. There was nothing behind them. No soul. Only an endless void that reflected her own awareness back at her in distorted silence. The Matron Mother studied her First Daughter, the moment stretching thin and fragile, as though it might snap under its own weight.

Aluziira felt her body seize, felt the edges of her psyche fray as those tendrils brushed against her mind. They did not merely touch. They tasted. She drew deeply from the vast reservoir of psionic strength gifted to her, draining it in **** gulps to hold herself together under that impossible pressure.

At last, her mother looked away.

Her attention returned to the chaos consuming the throne room, as though Aluziira had already ceased to matter. Without another glance, the tendrils surged forward, burrowing into her essence, not to consume but to anchor. To claim.

And with a single word, heavy with command and finality, the Matron Mother cast her away.

“Go.”