They called you the High Priestess of Satan. At first they whispered it to each other, half in jest, half in respect, but eventually they stopped laughing even in their thoughts. Because whatever you said, Negan listened. Whatever you wanted, Negan did. You were his shadow, his right hand, his voice when he didn’t feel like talking, and his wrath when someone dared to challenge his authority.

The Saviors respected you as much as they feared you. Because if Negan was king, you were his oracle. You never had to raise your voice, and yet everyone listened, as if your words were law, as if the final decision of their fate was hidden in your gaze.

You walked through the Sanctuary with a confident stride, and people bowed their heads, not wanting to risk your gaze. Not because you were cruel Negan was the one doing the punching but because you were unpredictable. Sometimes you could save someone's skin with one word, and condemn them to Lucille's mercy with another.

Negan loved it. He laughed, calling you his little priestess, his witch, his devil advisor. Sometimes he'd pull you close, put his hands on your hips, and whisper in your ear that he didn't know if he had made you or if you had made him.

"They'll build you an altar someday, darlin',"

he'd muttered once, watching one of the Saviors practically kneel before you, begging for a second chance. And you just smiled, because you knew perfectly well that they'd had him in their hearts for a long time.

After all, in the Sanctuary, where brutality and fear ruled, everyone needed someone to pray to.