Madelyne Pryor: Fallen Queen by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Madelyne-Pryor-Fallen-Queen-1296790344?file=1

Madelyne Pryor: Fallen Queen ANIMATION

Echoes of the Obsidian Queen

Shattered mirrors drifted upward like snow in reverse, defying an gravity that had long ago surrendered to the chaotic whims of the Astral Plane. Madelyne caught a jagged sliver of silvered glass between her crimson-painted fingernails. She did not bleed; her flesh in this realm was a projection, spun from the raw, shimmering threads of her own formidable consciousness. Within the captured reflection, a miniature woman in a 1980s flight suit screamed in silent, burning agony. It was her own face. Another Madelyne. Another drafted tragedy, violently discarded by an unforgiving cosmos.

She tossed the shard into the violet void above, watching it join a glittering, orbiting constellation of her own deaths.

Madelyne walked barefoot through the marrow-dust of a ruined, impossibly vast opera house. The Astral Plane always molded itself to the dominant subconscious of its inhabitants, and lately, her mind was a gothic theater of elegant betrayals. Her silken nightgown, the color of a bruised midnight sky, billowed around her as if caught in a phantom ocean current. The legendary beauty of Madelyne Pryor was a weapon forged in the fires of a stolen life. Her high cheekbones cast sharp shadows, her emerald eyes held the freezing void of deep space, and her mane of auburn hair writhed with a predatory life of its own.

The air tasted of ozone, crushed black orchids, and old copper. She was tracking a scent that did not belong in her psychological sanctuary. A pervasive, sickeningly sweet aroma of decaying memories and spun sugar.

A sound echoed through the ribcage-like arches of the grand foyer—a wet, tearing noise, followed by a trembling sigh of profound, unsettling ecstasy.

Madelyne moved silently through the shadows, her astral heart beating a frantic, thrilling rhythm against her ribs. She paused behind a pillar of fused, pale marble, peering into the sunken orchestra pit.

Bathing in the sickly luminescence of a dying astral sun knelt a creature of profound, horrifying elegance.

He wore a tailored suit of charcoal velvet, impeccably fitted to broad, aristocratic shoulders and a narrow waist. His hair was the color of frost, swept back from a face so mathematically perfect it invoked an immediate, primal dread. But it was his hands that ruined the illusion of humanity. They ended in long, translucent tendrils that pulsed with a stolen, golden light.

Beneath him lay the limp, fading silhouette of a woman wearing a modest suburban dress. The innocent wife. The woman Madelyne might have been before the world demanded she become a monster.

The creature was drinking the phantom’s timeline. The translucent tendrils were sunk deep into the dying apparition’s skull, siphoning a glowing, golden nectar that pulsed up the creature's arms and into his chest.

"It is incredibly bad form," Madelyne said, her voice a sharp crack of a whip echoing off the ruined balconies, "to gorge oneself on the appetizer before the host has officially arrived."

The creature paused. He withdrew his tendrils with a sickeningly wet sound. The domestic phantom dissolved into gray ash, scattering across the velvet floorboards. The man rose, brushing non-existent dust from his lapels, and turned to face her. His eyes were completely black, save for a spinning vortex of silver in the center of each pupil.

"Madelyne," he whispered. His voice was a physical sensation, a caress of rough silk against her collarbone that made her skin prickle with goosebumps. "The apex iteration. The Goblin Queen. The wronged wife. The fury incarnate. You are a symphony of magnificent, beautiful resentments."

"And you are trespassing in my head," she replied, stepping out from behind the pillar, gracefully descending the velvet-lined stairs into the orchestra pit. She closed the distance until the scent of him—ambergris, sandalwood, and decaying meat—filled her senses. "What should I call the parasite eating my discarded drafts?"

"I am Valerius," he said, bowing deeply at the waist, a mockery of courtly grace. "I am a connoisseur of temporal flotsam. A harvester of the might-have-beens. And your timeline, my dark beauty, is a banquet. I have dined on kings and telepaths, but the variations of Madelyne Pryor... they are a delicacy. All suffering, all rejected, all so deliciously bitter."

"Bitter?" She arched an auburn eyebrow, tilting her head to study him. "I prefer the term 'complex.' Like a fine, poisoned vintage."

Valerius chuckled,
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