Her eyes glaze like iced pottery as she follows the blood farther up its line of resolve, up, up, up.
Beyond the high windows, the rows of stout benches perched under stone canopies.
Beyond the arches that support the Panopticon’s emerald dome.
Beyond all of this, Flamina stares at the thing dangling from the place where the pod fell.
For there in the top of the dome, there is strung the flayed remains of a singular presence, a hawk among pigeons.
Cat among rats.
Man among minstrels and thieves.
That man is Rassilon, dripping backwards, his wet bones bunched like exotic carrots under that purple robe as they rebuild themselves from flesh assumingly repurposed from nearby matter. Her... father.
She looks down at the floor again, realising she’s missed it, in the semi-dark.
There is another man, naked at her feet, stained, she presumes, by the climbing blood. Or perhaps a wound.
He is shivering and unconscious.
The only man she would scream for.
As a figure in guard’s silvers sprints across from the hall she came from, she cries out.
“You! Get me Medical, now, quickl-hmph!”
One silver glove plunges down her throat in a surge of liquid.
Another rips the Egg of Law from her neck, leaving a red dent.
And as she is dragged away, one tight cheek of her bared rump squeaks and bumps intermittently across the smooth tiles.