The skull-crowned daughter is not far beyond her brother, a wraith of slender limbs and neurotically bright eyes, a skip to her eager step and a bright smile painted, cherubic, upon her ashen lips. There is no quaver, no hesitation, in her brimming confidence, but a steady, deep well of faith without reservation coiling through her lissome, energetic limbs. From the beginning, she has been taught, schooled, of her mother's unfailing strength ad might; whomever dares challenge her will fall beneath her charcoal hooves, crumple beneath the onslaught of the World Eater.

Besides, she doesn't quite recognize the severity of the situation at hand. She doesn't understand the underlying dissent, fury, and tension which simmers and seethes beneath facades of cold faces and uncaring smiles, the tedious anarchy which swells and blossoms in their very blood, the old feuds still fueled by the desire to protect. What she sees is a chance to view her mother in action, to learn from the vivid and fluid movements of mama springing into battle, to learn the machinations of a war woman's mind at work.

Red eyes sparkle in vivacious, glorious naivety as she watches in heartfelt adoration, tracing each movement, loving each second, when her mother put on her war-paint, lets her cinder coat melt into snow and ice and blood. The young twin emanates fervent belief and excitement, quivers with her eagerness. Of course Confutatis told her of her prowress, taught the twins battle tactics and how to utilize their magics, but that wasn't the same as watching her put it into wicked, volatile motion.

Her head twists, forelock shrouding her vermilion orbs, as she lets settle her gaze on Volterra, lips twitching upwards. A smile on top of a smile, just for his benefit.

"Of course she will." A whispered croon, a reverent exhalation rolling out from her tongue to dance in the air—after all, how could she not? The man who squared off to her didn't have a Mongrel, didn't have the sheer wits of the World Eater, and despite his forbidding air he wasn't... wasn't Confutatis. Alas, but she should've knocked on wood—should've kept her precious hopes closed shut and firm behind her lips, caged atwixt her pearly milk teeth.

Her heartbeat quickens to see the rapturous flurry of blows exchanged, the necromancy blooming out from unseen sources, the energy churning through the air. Even on the sidelines beside her brother, she can feel the itch of magic on her skin, the deadly and fatalistic potency churning beneath the invisible weaponry; she leans forward, a delicate and small movement, watching with wide eyes and a fierce smile, boiling with sharp and queasy confidence. The moments trickle by, first fast, then slow, a stretch of minutes pulled like taffy into a seeming of hours. Fear sets in, worry and clutching nerves, and she shifts her weight, her skin tightening and wrinkling in firmly around her until she can't quite move.

And it comes to catastrophic end.
It comes to failure, to unsatisfactory resolutions, and jaws unhinge in a low whimper of shock and utter confusion, a quiet cry of misery. How? Her heart twists, tightening and writhing like a mouse snagged on the fangs of a viper: "No!" No, no, no, how could this be? Eyelids slam shut, hiding away ruby irises, lashes pressing tightly together as lips contort into an expression of sheer dissatisfaction and raw denial.

Lilómiel chirps to her, a saccharine and sweet sound to her ears, a sorrowful song which hums up and down, a lullaby to ease the fear quivering through the fragile filly's frame. His claws press, knead, into her shoulders and withers, pricking sharp and hard into charcoal skin; his concern is a mother's croon, a gentle murmur meant to consolidate and comfort. The black doesn't understand, not in the slightest, as to the fear and worry circulating through her veins, but he tries to comfort her nonetheless, presses his muzzle against her warm skin and nestles deeper into all her crooks and curves.

If only it worked.