David's voice, calm and laced with an underlying amusement that bordered on the theatrical, echoed through the cavernous, twilight-warped throne realm. "Shall we talk, Mistress of the Creed?" His arms remained open, a gesture of audacious invitation, or perhaps, an open declaration of war.
The air, already thin and crackling with ancient power, turned utterly, chillingly still. It was the kind of silence that preceded a cataclysm, a held breath before the world tore itself apart. The Mistress of Whispers, suspended above the churning cosmic gate, remained motionless for several protracted seconds. Her burning sun-like eyes, twin infernos of ancient power, studied David.
