The death of her sister, the grief Emilia feels to this very day — it carved her in half. Only with fury has she been able to hone those pieces into a weapon, and only with time has she learned restraint, to not give into the impulse to unleash herself whenever it comes. And it does come as Wrathion is leveled with horrible accusations.

Accusations she will not trust, until they are far enough away from this place they can speak freely.

"He is not alone."

May this illusion know it. May Wrathion know it, too.

He tries to pull himself from her grasp, and though Emilia lets him go, she starts toward the table. "Over there," she tells him, unsure if he is able to see it with the strength of such an illusion.

But the lever sits on this table, alongside rope and a dagger.

More games. More fickleness. Like him, she is done.