There was no rage, pride or petty mortal triumph in her face
She was not a tribal chieftain. She was not a mortal warrior who had won just a war.
She was the mountain that crushed the valley; she was the winter that froze the herds; she was the sky that opened up to swallow the world.
She… was an ancient, primordial goddess descended from the highest heavens, sitting upon a throne of stars and bone, looking down upon a handful of worthless insects that had dared to crawl across her terrace.
To even breathe the same air as her felt like a profound, unforgivable sacrilege. To meet her gaze felt like an act of madness that would burn their eyes to cinders.
In front of such cosmic, absolute existence, the urge to speak, to offer diplomatic greetings, to cite ancestral treaties, "mutual sovereignty" were all reduced to meaningless, pathetic chirps of dust.
Whatever shredded remnants of pride or tribal identity lingered in the hearts of the envoys were burned to absolute ash.
