The prince faded into the background, stilled along the cavern floor and the catacomb walls. The mirror was a forgotten piece of scenery too, glinting and glistening behind them, untouched and untarnished from their previous exploits. The focus was entirely on the other two beings, threading through lineages, through stories, through pursuits and purposes, and he watched them, his father and the former Lady’s daughter, as they sorted amidst travesties, trials, and tribulations. He knew the stories, perhaps not all, but many, of how they’d been torn apart, of how they’d been marooned upon winter depths and snow capsules, about how they’d all been led into this grand, wondrous land, served the Time God, battled demons and monsters, fled from wraiths and treachery, from ghosts wandering halls and meadows, from murderers in masquerade. He knew the weight clinging to his father’s chest, even when he said nothing, nothing at all, he knew the way shame and guilt consumed, and he knew, somehow, someway, the Reaper could be healed in this moment and all the following ones, if he simply tried. The boy could see it in the stark contrast of stares and features, of haunted, poignant, sharp veneer cracking and splitting, of a girl’s face drawn and sketched to look like someone he’d never seen (but heard so much about). The boy wanted to hear them all again, each and every moment, from start to finish, so he could trace over the foundations, learn about his sire, Psyche, Ulrik the Engineer, Mauja the Frostheart, and all the other legends that had come before them (giants, tall and grand, majestic and wonderful, crafting and honing, shaping the land they now stood upon) again and again. When she proclaimed everything, his smile appeared again, wide and enveloping, inviting and imploring, as fervent, as eager, as the next, to watch his sire come to life again, to witness the daughter of a Queen remember her place in the world. His eyes drifted towards Deimos’ (the same, bright, vivid hue, even when the King’s were frozen, devastating, piercing portals, sculpted to conquer and the son’s were luminescent, brilliant, and twisted, designed to captivate), the grin apparent on a sparse symphony of words. “The Edge?” To start where it all began? His brow arched, his regal mannerisms defined, and his eyes went back and forth to them again, ready to reach out to whomever needed him the most.

Erebos

i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want