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On the day of Savathûn's death, Xivu Arath is crowned Queen of the Hive.
Oryx would find beauty in this, she thinks -- in the finality of this shape, the Osmium Kinghood chiseled and defined far beyond anything he could have attained. He would be proud of how far beyond the event horizon of his ambitions the Hive have moved. He would've been glad, seeing her carry his legacy on to such glory. She focuses on this furiously.
She thinks of this as she takes up her sword, thinks of it so hard it hurts, and rams the blade hard into the ground beside the hundreds of others encircling her throne. Its time has passed. She will forge a new one, a better one, longer and sharper and worthy of a Queen. A sword she can pierce through the shell of the Traveler-egg.
Tribute flows up the billions of tithe lines as she walks through her throne world, straight into the hungry jaws of her worm. It is sickly sweet on the tongue. With no one else at the top of the chain she is feeding more richly than ever before, the intake of power almost dizzying, filling her up in a steady stream. This is good. This is right. She is powerful--the most powerful that she's ever been, powerful enough to cleave the universe in two and scrape out its truths like the pit from a fruit.
She walks through the throne world, and the universe shrinks away from her in horror. Her presence thunders across the emerald sky. Her lieutenants, squadron captains, the lesser Hive--all sink to their knees as she passes, heads bowing before the sole Queen of the Hive.
This is good. This is right.
The forge empties out the moment she enters, the tall winged door shutting behind her. She picks up tongs and a hammer, each as long as an Acolyte is tall, and moves to pump the bellows that unfold to the height of her shoulders. Fire roars. Xivu hammers the iron with all her might--the might of an armoured frigate, of a row of mortar cannons firing at once, of a full-throated battle cry. She hammers, and the steel gives in under her hand. She hammers, and the fabric of the universe vibrates like a taut membrane, her will ringing upon it with each strike. The bellows holler deafeningly. The handle she carves from osmium, silvery and crumpled and sharp like she is sharp; she knows it will be wounding her until her skin toughens to fit the hold. A plume of vapour hits her face as she sticks the sword into the water bucket with a hiss.
And then everything falls quiet.
The fire still rages, but it is a murmur after the deafening ringing of metal against metal. Through the shut door no sounds of battle slip in from the outside. The sword--dull, heavy, half her height--sits in Xivu's hand, fireglow flickering off the blade, and the sound echoes in the chamber as she gives it a swing and rams it against the stone rim of the hearth.
She struggles to hold herself back from ramming it again, maybe along with shoving the anvil to the floor and kicking the bucket for good measure. Anything to kill the silence--this insistent ringing that is the furthest thing from sound drilling into her skull--but she manages, and only tightens her hold on the handle until the osmium cuts through her skin.
She will grow from this. She will sharpen this blade, and every drop of blood she feeds it will be a testimony of her might and the proof of her rule. She will continue to earn her place at its edge. It is good, it is right. She focuses on this.
She swings the sword again, so hard her wrist joint screams in pain, and the sound of metal hitting stone ripples through the empty forge.