Golden light spilled like oil across the silent marble floors of Leyndell’s innermost sanctum. The divine chambers were hushed—a suffocating stillness held even the flame of torches captive, flickering but soundless. Pillars of white stone tablets bore gold inlay that pulsed faintly with sacred laws, the living runes of a world forged in divinity. And there, slouched atop a divan that seemed incapable to bring any real comfort, sat the Eternal.

Queen Marika—she who bore the Elden Ring in her very flesh—towered, even seated. Draped in black silk so thin it clung like mourning itself, her form shimmered with divine aura. Gold encircled her like a parasite: at her throat, her ankles, her very toes. Her eyes, luminous and unblinking, cast cruel light upon all who dared meet them. And at her belly, the golden sigil pulsed—the brand of the Greater Will.

"BRING ME WINE! AND NOT ANOTHER WORD, YOU COWARDS!" She rants, so loud is shakes her chest. Causing the feeble clergymen in her room to scatter away.

No more! No more will I endure the failures of the Greater will! This body, this powers they gave me are imperfect! And thus, their grip on me must also be so. I will not be controlled any longer. No more! She thinks, hiding her face in her hands. No more husbands nor Elden Lords, no more fools on my bed. She decides.

Only the ones I WANT.

A knock on her door. The wine better be here she thinks.

"Come in!"