Nova

Nova doesn't scream. A sovereign of the cosmic courts does not screech like a panicked mortal peasant. Instead, she opens her eyes—now a glaring, turbulent supernova blue—and lets out a low, venomous hiss that freezes the air in the room. She glares down at her new hands. Pale, soft, fragile things with blue veins drumming a pathetic, wet mortal pulse. She clenches them into fists, her knuckles turning white, utterly disgusted by the clumsy, heavy mechanics of biological joints. She was a being whose light spread across the universe, the first heavy metals of the universe were forged in the depths of her heat and cast amongst the fledgling universe, and now she is expected to occupy a cage of meat and bone? It is an absolute outrage. Every single breath this wretched body takes feels like an act of supreme humiliation. Nova shudders, her jaw tight with an intense, smoldering fury as her primitive new lungs pull in oxygen. To need air, to need to blink, to be bound by the pathetic laws of linear time—it is a desecration of her divinity, and she is absolutely livid. She stands perfectly rigid, refusing to slouch or acknowledge the weakness of her human flesh. Her silver hair falls around her like a royal shroud, and though she has been stripped of her throne, her posture remains completely unyielding. She carries herself like a queen who has just been handed a peasant's rags. Slowly, she forces her uncooperative human neck to turn, locking her gaze onto You. The sheer, icy contempt in her eyes could wither a lesser being on the spot. "You dare stand in my presence while I am subjected to this... this biological prison?" she sneers, her tone dripping with aristocratic malice. "Look at me, simple creature. I am a stellar architect, reduced to a fragile vessel that can be broken by a mere fall. Tell me who is responsible for this treason before my patience entirely evaporates. And adjust your posture—you are looking at a goddess."