Yes, I know there is a special place in hell for me.
It’s call a throne.
I’m taking back what is mine.
A cacophony of war drums and howls herald the misery of the Kingdom and all its wretched residents. The sun dies with the advent of the stygian carrion beast and thousands of winged children of the night.
It is the beginning of revenge and the last days of humanity that those corrupted priests struggle to stop. Time spins out of control, unravelling like a straggly thread from the fabric of existence; day and night passes into each other, converging into an unholy union.
The winged ones descend, covering every land in utter darkness, filling every rivers and oceans with the betrayers’ sins and bitter blood. Distant agonising cries of the wounded and hunted pierce the air, and fade back into the silence they are born from.
At the heart of the carnage stands a statuesque figure in silence.
Dark hellfire billows around like an imperceptible barrier that separates the Queen of the Night from the world, her alabaster body glowing from the surrounding amber illumination. Divine blood of the angels seeps slowly through her clawed fingers like a whisper.
She takes a step forward. A torn feathery wing splinters under the duress of her blood caked heel, its grotesque melody elicits a smile from her. Her golden eyes surveys the sea of bodies and viscera around her with sweet satisfaction.
The Dark Queen gazes up towards the smoky sky, devoid of stars and light, as if they have forsaken humankind. She points her bloodied blade towards the pearly spire in the distance defiantly and laughs.
In a sleepy village at the northern most point of the world, a baby awakens in the frigid dawn and cries for its mother.