Ancient History

A gleaming obsidian dish, chased in gold, is lifted from outside the ring of light. Fine silvery sand is piled in a perfect half-moon in the center, beside a thin golden spoon - it must have taken hours to shape. A clawed hand lavish with rings lifts the spoon, destroys the surface of the dome with a heavy scoop; the lamplight reflects off the powder in a dizzying array of hypersaturated, impossible colors. A sharp snort, then another. By the time the spoon returns to the dish, the hand is shaking.

Fists form as the maned figure shifts digitigrade legs beneath it, takes a steadying breath. Blood wells from palms and nose both. Her entire body jerks once as if electrocuted; again, and the lantern shatters, blown away as if struck. Muscles strain in her neck, mane standing on end. Her pulse is the thunder of a fleeing herd, her vision swims black.

You. Are. Stronger.

She drools slightly, lips peeled away from curved fangs; the servant kneeling in the dark looks away instinctively. Every breath tears through her throat and burns her lungs like volcanic ash.

Flesh. Answers. Will.

The worst is subsiding, now. The bleeding has stopped. Slit-pupil eyes crack open, focus on the table that supported the lamp; it wavers, jerks itself into the air, and shatters into kindling by unseen force. She barks a laugh.

"Inform the Prince I possess the southern armies."

And let him come try to take them back.