Daphne witnesses the flames rise, and stares stunned with tears in her arms. She hides her face behind her mother, who embraces her - glaring up at Halea all the while.
Halea watches the flames behind the empty eyes of her ceremonial mask. After a moment, a voice catches her attention.
Voice (thinking): It is a fine fake indeed, your Divinity.
She turns toward the crowd behind her, where she focuses on a singular dark figure. They have a notable white spot over their eye.
Voice (thinking): You even dyed the white hair golden.
As the body burns upon the pyre, the figure in the audience watches from a spot higher up. His fur-lined cloak sits heavy upon his shoulders, and a torn-up ear rests in the middle of some sort of head wrapping.
Halea (thinking): Surprised, are you?
Voice (thinking): Not at all, your Divinity. I'm sure you have many in your collection that resemble her in both face and body.
Halea (thinking): There's no need for flattery, Amos. Speak your mind, so that I need not dig.