Beg for it

                     “here to enthuse of war, no doubt,” is the enigmatic croon proffered to her solicitous little titan as the phantom’s rugged physique emerges from a veil of mist, tendrils of fog duly coiling about her ankles to refine the illusion of floating. yet her glacial stare is engrossed in the silver wraith’s coral gaze as the deity maneuvers within closer proximities to her unanticipated company and adjacent to her son’s left side, her poise malignantly composed in contrast to the boy’s inherent hostility. and rigorous pupils briefly divert from their fixation upon the monarch’s own as her attention is abruptly ensnared by the lingering babes defiantly placed at their mother’s forelimb, their infantile exteriors suggesting an age similar to her own budding progeny. a singular brow ascends upon the tyrant’s mutilated forehead with tacit inquiry as her frigid gaze unites once more with the arcanum sovereign’s own, mild curiosity discernible through the faint expression etched upon her disfigured countenance. “cataleya,” is the curt greeting the elysius extends toward the silver herald, silently bading the woman to explain the reason for her summons as silence proceeds her apathetic vocalizations.