She felt a cold twist in her stomach.
A pit of dread that seemed to grow more and more with every passing moment.
Like...a black hole of fear and dread.
Merwyn stared down dispassionately at the throne. There was no mirth in his gaze, but neither was there any rage or irritation.
If what he said was true, then countless fae were killed by this throne, duped by a wily human...only for that human to die as soon as he tried to use the magic, due to the incompatibility of fae and human magics.
A throne which took so many lives.
So quickly.
So effortlessly.
For nothing.
And now she stood in front of it, in a room effectively empty save for it.
It felt akin to standing in front of a high voltage power line and knowing that if she simply reached too close or touched it she'd die.
A part of her feared that somehow she'd die even if she didn't, just by being hear it.
