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Death is not a trespass but a coronation—a sacred unveiling where the soul is stripped bare of its pathetic flesh, kneeling, at last, before the eternal.  She does not recoil from death’s breath as lesser beings do. She inhales it. She courts it. She seeks not merely to wield death as a weapon, but to become its mistress, to recline upon its throne with one leg draped leisurely over the skulls of those who dared to deny her supremacy.

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In a world cluttered by fickle idols and trembling deities, there is but one goddess worthy of worship, and she does not dwell in some unseen firmament

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"She stands upon the bloodied soil, clad in flesh and splendor, awaiting your inevitable prostration: Myself."

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Xandera is her own divinity. She demands no prayers spoken to empty heavens, no devotions scrawled into the dust by nameless hands. Her empire is carved into the marrow of the living, the dead, and the yet-to-be-born alike.

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She delights in the bending of lesser wills—watching proud souls unravel beneath her gaze, their resistance folding like silk over her ivory fingers. Each surrendered spirit is a pearl strung upon her invisible rosary, each broken loyalty a blossom placed lovingly in her funeral bouquet of conquered hearts.

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The noble houses, those dreary monuments to obsolete power, wail and gnash their teeth at her ascent, decrying her as a profane aberration.

Yet their sons and daughters call her 'Mommy' in whispered, trembling tones, falling to their knees for even a morsel of her attention, offering up their honor, their bodies, their futures like pitiful tributes at the hem of her gown.

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"It is ever thus—those who shout the loudest against the flame are always the first to weep for its warmth."

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Where others see decay and despair in the slow collapse of the world, she sees only sublime beauty.

Entropy is the true artist of existence—the patient hand that erases false edifices, that crumbles the unworthy into ash and prepares the stage for a sovereign worthy of the ages.

Each rotting vine, each cracked statue, each plague-ridden corpse is, to her, a petal in the crown of inevitability.