The Sovereign of Hellfire

The ash-choked wind bowed before her, silent and thin. She did not wear gold; her crown was forged from the dying gasps of unmade stars, a heavy wreath of magma and ancient memory. Across her skin, molten scars tracing her collarbone bloomed like fresh embers, glowing with the steady, quiet pulse of a heart that had outlived its own destruction.

They expected fury from a queen born of the abyss. Yet, as she looked out over the endless, burning dunes, her eyes held only a soft, melancholic grace. She was not the monster that sparked the inferno; she was the absolute silence that followed it.