"Before what?" she asked, tilting her head with the innocent curiosity of a child who'd just discovered how to burn ants with a magnifying glass.
"Before she found you."
Above them, Nyxavere's laughter rolled across the dying cosmos like thunder. She sat on her throne of twisted and floating in space-time, watching her masterpiece unfold. Every chain that bound her daddy, every star that died, every scream that rose from the infinity Earths below—it all fed her dark amusement.
Her throne wasn't made of any earthly material. It seemed to be carved from the fabric of reality itself, constantly shifting and warping as if space and time were mere clay in her hands. The armrests pulsed with the dying light of consumed galaxies, and the backrest towered impossibly high, disappearing into dimensions that hurt to perceive directly.
