Beneath the Abyssal Chasm, where the ossified bones of elder worlds had been laid to rest with the indifferent contempt of a continent settling upon its own forgotten dead, there existed a sanctum that possessed no door.
Doors, after all, were courtesies afforded only to the fleeting living.
Within that lightless cradle, upon a slab hewn from stone older than any name spoken beneath the sun, a woman had slumbered through uncounted centuries.
She was not dead. The old realms had, at intervals, sought to persuade themselves otherwise... because they feared the fact that she'd one day awaken and then they'd be nothing left to save them from her wrath.
But hopes were a cruel as they could ever get!
Yet, the image of her didn't match the monster they feared... she was beautiful in the manner of primordial cataclysms and star-forged ruins — a beauty that first struck the soul as awe, then revealed itself, with glacial inevitability, as warning.
