Lilith’s Regent
Lilith stood in the cold, vast chamber before Death's throne. The Entity that sat upon it was shrouded in a darkness so thick, it seemed to swallow the very light around them. Death's true form was unknowable, concealed entirely by the void, yet the presence was undeniable—an overwhelming aura of finality, of endings and inevitable fate. Her throne, however, was something far more disturbing. Though clearly dead, it looked alive, with veins of blackened tendrils crawling across its surface, pulsating softly as though some grotesque imitation of life clung to it. The throne seemed to breathe, each inhale and exhale subtle but unmistakable, as if the stone had been woven from the fabric of the long-forgotten dead.
Death spoke from the shadows, her voice low and seductive, drawing Lilith in as though inviting her to embrace oblivion. "Are you sure?" the voice asked, almost in a whisper, each word laced with the promise of eternal sleep.