And she speaks in a voice that sets men trembling, with eyes painted gold and a throne built on the bones of those who would challenge her rule. Cults of ascetics dance ecstasies in her honour and write her words in blood across their altars. Her body is a holy temple and her power springs from the divine source of her own terrible will. She is not of mortal flesh, they will whisper, as she wheels on her stallion and screams warchants to the heavens, emerging from battle wreathed in the blood and soil of a new kingdom. She rules with iron fists, with the cracking of cathedrals, with the love and the fear of her vast wild armies. She harbours a sword within her unquiet roaring heart, and with it has carved herself a new space, outside of law or nature or humankind. She is the mother of an empire; she is the mother of herself. Watch her rise.