As Halea, Daphne, and the pallbearers walk toward the light, Euphemia cleans a pair of red glasses she's just pulled from her cloak. Halea speaks brightly to Daphne, leading her with a hand to her back.

Halea: Come, come... You need your rest, Daphne. Phaedra will have a funeral fit for a queen. It will be my most solemn honor to host it.

Euphemia dons the red glasses. To her side, one of the samoyeds watches fearfully. Euphemia glares toward Halea.

Euphemia (thinking): A bad actress with a poorly maintained costume... How's it feel, pretending at being human?

Halea turns back, smiling. Her glass peacock eye fixates on Euphemia, wide, cold, unmatched to the rest of her expression. It looks horrendously unnatural. And Euphemia's thought is answered, echoing with the sound of the gods.

Halea (thinking): VILE.