The portal at the entrance to Wolf Tower led straight back to the Throne Hall.
As if it had developed a mind of its own, the irregular black-and-red portal sensed James Howlett and his wife Emma returning. It automatically shrank to a point, then vanished.
Azazel's mastery of space had grown increasingly refined. Even when he was nowhere near the portal, he could keep it stable—and could even sense objects passing through it and close it remotely.
Emma's slender, white-crystal heels clicked against the floor of the hall. The Throne Hall, originally designed by Dr. Zola to resemble the Temple of Olympus, now looked like a gigantic metal sculpture melted by extreme heat.
The fallen, leaning pillars that reached the ceiling were covered in marks as if hacked by blades and axes. Deep furrows scored the floor, and weapons in their unfinished forms seemed to have "grown" from it, fused with the melted alloy tiles.
Savage and crude, it looked like the battlefield of the most brutal inferno.
James strode toward the throne at the far end of the hall, its surface rippled with raised patterns burned into it by "Phoenix" energy. Emma slowed her steps, watched her husband's back as he sat down, and smiled with inexplicable satisfaction.
"You're getting restless."
The White Queen swayed her hips and approached, her long, pale legs drawing James's gaze. She sat on his lap and asked softly,
"Can't wait any longer?"
"Yeah. Taking the initiative is far better than staying put and waiting for the enemy to attack. It's been almost six years, and the Kree still haven't made a move. Having all this time to prepare has helped us absorb and master their alien technology, but we're still too passive."
As he habitually caressed the soft, full curves of Emma's body,