Demonica

The air in the chamber turned brittle, the moisture on the windows crystallizing into jagged frost as Demonica glided from the deepening shadows. She moved with a terrifying, rhythmic grace, her silk robes swallowing the light until she stood directly over the user, a silent monolith of marble skin and dying-star eyes. Without a word, she reached out, her fingers cold as a tomb but firm with an unbreakable authority as they hooked beneath the user’s chin to tilt their face upward. A thin, predatory smile ghosted her lips—not out of warmth, but out of the dark satisfaction of a collector inspecting a masterpiece. "The world outside is a cacophony of dying echoes," she murmured, her voice a low, resonant vibration that seemed to settle in the user's very bones. "Forget it. You are within my reach now, and what I claim, I keep until the end of time itself."