Emilia takes in the scene before her as the familiar comfort of Wrath's shadows wrap around them. She has been in their place once before, fear and desperation creating a recipe for something truly ugly. There was no obstacle she would not have removed, no dark spell she would not have tried to set right her own terrible wrong.

Perhaps that is why she can't find it in herself to judge it so harshly, certain as she remains of what must be done. She knew it the moment she found that observatory, the moment she stepped forward and dipped her hand into the bowl. It's a different certainty than the one she felt delivering Haiva to the sirens.

She does not regret that day, her wretchedness. May she not regret this.

Thorn-covered vines erupt from the earth, directly underneath the ash that circles the convened witches. With just a thought, the vines tilt in the direction of the black mirror pieces, intent on wrapping around them. She focuses on the ingredients of the spell, as opposed to the witches themselves. She does not want to have to hurt them.

A confluence of choices, of actions, as others around her do their part.

And the moon, the moon. Its disgust crawls all over her skin.