Watching the joy below through an enchanted lens that reflected nothing but ice.
A cloaked figure adjusted the shimmering pane of glass, eyes narrowing behind a dark veil. The laughter echoed faintly through the chamber walls, sweet and warm and alive.
"She's begun awakening," the figure whispered.
Behind them, smoke curled into the shape of a second form—less person than presence. A voice echoed through the haze, warped and inhuman:
"Then we move before the Seven awaken with her."
The first figure did not flinch.
They leaned forward again, gaze locked on the little girl in silver—now being lifted for the third time by her doting brothers, crown slightly askew, laughter carrying like wind-chimes.
"Let the girl dance," the figure murmured. "She won't be smiling when we burn it all down."
And with that—
The lens shimmered.
Cracked.
And shattered.
