It pulsed against her. Their Will. Her people. A sea of pure emotion. Their hopes. Their devotion. Their adoration. She felt their hooves wrap around her, pushing her forward. The ocean swelled, it grew. Their Will was all encompassing.
She was enshrouded by Thanatos. Ever present as a specter, wings bound tightly around like chains. A welcome burden. She could handle the weight.
Hades was dead. His head lay nearby, severed from his neck. He would come back. She felt no ill will from him. Just bemusement at her plan. The staff, taken from his personal treasury, was heavy in her hooves. A thing of bone and cold and magic. It pulsated with power, whispering dark secrets in her soul.
Another pulse. From her people. From Thanatos. From the staff. A need to be free. A need to move forward. A need to be used. It swelled. It drowned her. They demanded action.
She could handle the weight, the burden, the Will.
She would bring them back to the land of the living.
She would raise them.