Queen of Supernatural
The fog itself seemed to shiver, pulling tighter, until the figures were so near Mia could see the glint of eyes—silver, countless, unblinking.
The pendant pulsed again. Slow, rhythmic. A heartbeat that wasn’t hers.
“They’re here,” Mia whispered. Her voice broke like glass. “The ones who rewrote it.”
The eyes blinked all at once. Then a ripple of sound, like parchment tearing, cracked the air. The mist split open, revealing not the clearing, but a throne towering in the distance, veiled in shadows. On it sat a figure crowned in violet flame.
The Queen.
*“For me,”* her voice thundered—not loud, but absolute.
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