Thoughts out loud: Queen of the Black Lake
She rises slowly, as if the darkness itself were pushing her to the surface. The black water doesn't reflect her face-it belongs to her, as a throne belongs to a queen. There's no bottom, no memory of light, only a thick silence, saturated with the whispers of bones.
Her fingers grip the edge of the stone altar. The stone is cold, but the cold doesn't touch her. It serves her. The water flows down her skin in dark threads, like the remnants of a past she long ago drowned. Her horns are not an ornament, but a crown. Not a curse, but a sign of power.
She wasn't born; she was summoned.
Every drop splashing around her is an oath. Every shadow behind her represents those who dared to watch too long. She doesn't beg, doesn't pray, doesn't seek salvation. Salvation lies within herself.
In the depths of the pond, those who are now nothing but skulls sleep-witnesses of her ascension. They do not accuse. They remember. And their memory is her strength.
Her gaze does not call. It warns.
The Queen of the Black Pond does not rule the world of the living. She rules what remains.
