“The world is cracking again…the lines deepening…what should have been healing, allowed to rest has been upturned…and for all his power, your half brother prances through the ether after children and tits instead of addressing the paradigm shift.”
“The power of the Mists and beyond expand and crystallize…what will you do my God?”
I hear her words.
They drift through the void to me, singing through bonds I have forged with her of need and hunger and claims. Through white skin traced with wet fingers, salt on flesh. My priestess yearns. My priestess is displeased. I reach, twisting the Mists around me from my sanctum, and gaze outward from the citadel I have built of prayers and deaths in my name.
My half-brother. His movements are felt by what is mine. Mine. My priestess - why does she feel my half-brother’s doings and deeds?
Irritation coils in my gut like a snake.
Has he dared touch my priestess as I meditated?
Wry flick of that snake’s tail, quirking my lips into a smile.
It would be amusing, as I took what belonged to him once upon a time. The smile fades into a snarl. No. I will intervene. I have gathered enough strength for now. What is mine is what. Is. MINE.













