She is forcefully thrown back into her body

Cold, knife-edged air flooded Aluziira’s lungs, each breath sharp enough to sting as it filled her chest, scouring away the suffocating residue of the vision. Her heart hammered wildly, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs, as the world snapped back into merciless clarity. The **** of the psionic expulsion did not fade with the vision. It struck her body with equal ****, sending her stumbling, then outright flinging her backward until she collided with the unyielding bulk of Sorndyn. His grunted at the unexpected impact, the sound grounding and solid against the lingering unreality in her mind.

Painted fingers, cool despite the heat of the chamber, brushed against her face with practiced familiarity, kneading life back into numb flesh. Her own hands rose sluggishly, fingertips grazing her lips and nose. They came away slick, coated in thick, dark blood that had spilled freely down her face. When she blinked, her vision swam briefly, the edges tinged red, and a glance around revealed the same strain etched into the others. Bloodshot eyes, trembling breaths, the faint sheen of exertion clinging to them all. Only the devil-blooded twins stood untouched, their expressions eerily composed amidst the aftermath.

“Mistress,” Rylraen rasped, her voice raw as if dragged over broken glass, “I couldn’t see as much as yo-”

“Matron,” Hjuldek cut in, his voice rough and immovable as stone. His immaculate white beard, once pristine, was now streaked with vivid crimson that clung stubbornly to the wiry strands.

The word settled heavily among them.

Indecision stirred the air like a gathering storm, pressing against each of them as its meaning took root. It moved in subtle shifts at first, a tightening of posture, a straightening of spines, a hardening of gazes. One by one, they adjusted, as though invisible strings had been pulled taut, reshaping them to fit the new order.

A soft voice broke through, smooth and measured, yet carrying effortlessly across the chamber. “Matron Mother,” Brinalla called from the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim glow of corridor lanterns, “everyone has been gathered.”

Initari, the female Tiefling, stepped lightly from her place beside the scrying slab. The faint scent of brimstone clung to her as she raised a hand in quiet supplication. Aluziira recognized the gesture instantly. With a small, decisive nod, she granted permission. Arcane syllables slipped from Initari’s lips, low and melodic, and a gentle shimmer passed over the room. The blood upon Aluziira’s skin vanished, drawn away as though it had never been, leaving her face cool and clean. The same magic swept over the others, restoring them to a semblance of composure, save for Sorndyn, whose low growl rumbled in refusal, the sound vibrating through the stone beneath their feet.

Aluziira smoothed her gossamer robes, fingers tracing over torn edges and darkened stains that spoke of **** not yet fully erased. She drew in a slow breath through her nose, savoring the lingering scent of blood that hung in the air, its coppery tang sharp and grounding. It steadied her thoughts, gave them shape. Though no ritual confirmed it, no priestess spoke it aloud, she felt the weight settle upon her all the same. The mantle of Matron Mother pressed against her shoulders, unseen yet undeniable. Somewhere, beyond sight and beyond reach, her mother was simply gone, devoured so completely that not even judgment remained for her in the Demonweb Pits.

Every gaze dropped.

None dared meet her eyes. Instead, they fixed upon the floor, her feet, the space just before her, waiting. Expectant. Silent.

She turned.

The motion was fluid, deliberate, and Sorndyn moved with her instinctively, his massive form curving to remain at her side like a shadow given flesh. Normally, she would have noted the play of his muscles, the heat of his presence, the familiar male scent that clung to him, but those thoughts slipped past her unnoticed. Purpose consumed her as she strode from the Scrying Chamber.

The Throne Room opened before her, vast and oppressive, its vaulted ceilings disappearing into shadow. Nearly a hundred souls filled the space, their bodies packed tightly together in uneasy stillness. Slaves with downcast eyes, armored guards standing rigid, servants clutching at themselves, children peering through gaps in the crowd. Their fear was palpable, thick enough to taste, a sour, cloying presence that coated the back of her throat.

She sneered, the expression sharp and unyielding, and advanced without hesitation. Each step echoed in the grand hall, deliberate and commanding, drawing every ounce of attention toward her as she ascended the dais.

The throne awaited.

It was smaller than the one in their manse, less ostentatious, yet no less imposing. Obsidian gleamed like a pool of midnight, its surface smooth and reflective, seamlessly fused with pale marble that bore intricate carvings. Blasphemous figures twisted within the natural grain of the stone, their forms writhing in silent devotion, a union of the Matriarch of the Dark Seldarine and the Illaeli’s demi-god etched across every inch.

It was hers.

It is MINE.

Aluziira turned and lowered herself onto the cushioned seat, the delicate fabric of her robes settling over her legs like liquid shadow. She held her head high, spine perfectly straight, her gaze angled downward with cold precision. Authority radiated from her, not **** but inherent, as though it had always been waiting for this moment to emerge.

Sorndyn ascended beside her, his towering form looming as he took his place at the throne’s side. His gaunt bulk pressed close, a living barrier, his presence both protective and possessive. Heavy testicles spilled over the armrest and tickled her with their fur, the bloody handprint she had given them proudly on display.

Without a word, the room responded. Knees bent in unison, a ripple of submission cascading through the gathered masses. The lowest ranks collapsed fully, pressing themselves to the ground in abject surrender, while those closer to her knelt with rigid discipline, heads bowed in absolute deference.

Silence returned, but it was no longer empty.

It thrummed with tension, grief, and something deeper, something binding them together in that moment. An unspoken accord passed through the crowd, a collective recognition that something irrevocable had shifted.

Then, as one, they spoke.

The sound rose not as scattered voices but as a single, unified proclamation that shook the chamber’s very foundations.

“Long live the Matron Mother!”