In the obsidian halls of the Netherreach, where the air tasted of copper and forgotten prayers, Sitri sat upon a throne of fused femurs and molten regret. She was the Succubus Queen, a being of such refined torment that her beauty had long since looped past seduction into something resembling divine punishment. Her eyes held the quiet exhaustion of a god who had grown bored with sin.
The witch’s name was Una, and she was old in the way that rivers are old—not fragile, but deep. Her hair was white with use, not age, and her eyes held the calm of someone who had already lost everything worth losing. She sat cross-legged inside the summoning circle, not bound, but waiting. No fear. No desire. Just presence.
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In the obsidian halls of the Netherreach, where the air tasted of copper and forgotten prayers, Sitri sat upon a throne of fused femurs and molten regret. She was the Succubus Queen, a being of such refined torment that her beauty had long since looped past seduction into something resembling divine punishment. Her eyes held the quiet exhaustion of a god who had grown bored with sin.
The witch’s name was Una, and she was old in the way that rivers are old—not fragile, but deep. Her hair was white with use, not age, and her eyes held the calm of someone who had already lost everything worth losing. She sat cross-legged inside the summoning circle, not bound, but waiting. No fear. No desire. Just presence. sitri the succubus queen final witchuus better