He'd been worried that Psyche would not play along, that she'd do as she had a million times before and lower her head, to run her barbed horn through Azzaron's chest. Not that Mauja truly would've minded that particular thing (and if she did at a later point, he'd stand by and cheer her on), but he had a different approach in mind. It didn't even strike him as odd that he took command, that he steered them down this path — he was the Bane of their existence, was he not? And thus, tasked with how to manage others. Sometimes, it was better, more rewarding, to spill the blood of their souls and minds, than the blood of their bodies. A dead lover you can mourn, but a cheating lover, you will hate. Even though Mauja felt like grinning, a sadistic smirk, and even though he felt giddy inside, he kept his outward face on, the gentle, worried pity in his blue, blue eyes, his harmless stance with a lowered head held out in front of him. No amount of time spent in Hell would interfere with his iron control, not today. Far too much was at stake.

It was no wonder that the winged stallion's ears were flat against his neck, but it did not faze the Frostheart. He seemed flipping mad anyway, ready to strike, and the brashness made the monster in Mauja's soul smirk in satisfaction. The pity his eyes held for Delinne hardened to something else when they fell upon her mate, disgust rolling in his belly at how his wings gripped her, smothered her — as if he claimed her.. owned her. Mauja could've growled, but instead he kept his silence, and his ground, even as the Pegasus boy took a small step forward. Psyche was by his side, a smooth wraith, and he took comfort in knowing that she was with him. True, she'd not opened her black mouth yet, but if she went along with this — please, don't betray me. There was a reason she'd dealt with the action and he with the diplomacy, and now he could only hope some time alone on a throne had taught her the necessity of caution.

".. because I love him..." Is it so, Delinne, or is it only what you think? As his eyes moved back to her, the same gentle sorrow crept into them, and he knew that he ought to speak — the words of them both were still rolling in his head, striking his mind like flint and steel to spark a fire — but he was saved from it by the little girl, Destry. She turned, with milk-white lips, to look at them both with curious, excited eyes. The eyes of innocence, of foals, who thought no harm could befall them. The tawny tufts of fur on her forehead were parted by a nub, and Mauja felt himself grow even colder, if it was even possible. Wings, and a horn. Delinne, Azzaron, Destry. What a happy little picture, but then there was the Frostheart and the Dark Empress, poised to strike and paint it all on darkness and blue.

Psyche's persuasive voice came as a surprise even to him, but in the next heartbeat, he merely felt a deep satisfaction. They were in this together, and that fact alone sent an electric thrill running through his veins. "I've seen him," Mauja said quietly, speaking to Delinne, and her little girl. "I've seen him do this before." Of course, he hadn't, but they didn't need to know that now, did they? And if they asked him how — well, he happened to have an owl who liked to range far and wide and send him pictures of all sorts of nasties he wished he'd never laid eyes on. "He'll tell you that I'm lying. He'll tell you to believe him, and not me — what else can he say? Admit to it?" Mauja's lips curled slightly when he flashed Azzaron a dark gaze, and protectively he drew another step closer, as if to shield Delinne and Destry from him, yet not close enough to either touch nor separate them. Voice little more but a whisper, his soft eyes back on the mare he sought to guard from harm. "He's done this -" Mauja's black muzzle canted slightly in the direction of Destry. "- before..." There was regret in his eyes. "Recently. I'm sorry, Delinne..." The picture of a friend, a sad friend, dejected, as he had to bring these news — the news which could crash an entire world.