Sheena watches Nu-Mantia flee through the dissipating smoke, her shadow swallowed by Kvatch’s towering walls. A guard rushes forward, trembling.
"Your Grace—the Void-Lich—how—?"

Sheena lifts her wine chalice, its surface catching the sun like forged steel.
"Some things bleed darkness," she murmurs. "Others bleed boredom."

Beyond the gates, Nu-Mantia’s scream echoes. Distant. Irrelevant.
Sheena’s gaze drifts to her throne. To the Requiem resting beside it—silent, clean, dreaming of skies it hasn’t yet sliced apart.

Chaos, after all, need not be loud.


And somewhere in Cyrodiil, Nu-Mantia learns: never interrupt a Duchess’s afternoon wine.