Lambda couldn't help but to love these little games they played together.

She'd often tantalize herself with fantasies of all the ways she could ruin Bern. Oh, how she'd love to simply gouge out those emotionless little eyes – to slit her throat just enough to rip out her vocal cords and tie them into a pretty little bow, and to lick away the pearls of crimson blood that would drip down her pale skin. How tragically romantic it would be! Lambda could hardly contain herself at the mere thought, clutching her shoulders in delight as if her heart could explode out of sheer excitement.

However, these yearnings were hardly a secret to the witch's opponent. Lambda firmly believed that containing such strong emotion would be pointless; after all, half the fun of unrequited love was the anticipation that came with longing for what was just out of one's reach. But Lambda knew very well that such a task, however daunting, was not impossible. For she was the Witch of Certainty, and knew for certain that Bern would be hers, even if she had to trap the little bird in a cage herself to get her to sing.

Cries of agony, cries of despair – how she'd love to hear even an ounce of misery escape from those stubborn little lips. Though no matter how desperately she tried, Bern was impossible to break. Or perhaps she was already broken, nothing more than a shattered porcelain doll that even Lambda couldn't hope to ruin beyond its already desolate state of existence.

Lambda couldn't help to see the girl as a beautiful tragedy. Surprisingly enough, she did sincerely care for Bern – perhaps not in the traditional sense of the word, but nonetheless, her feelings were genuine. And Bern often entertained this desire with a game of her own, a game even more tormenting than any of her previous ones.

When she would press her lips up against the blonde's own, the contact was always painfully soft. As she proceeded to deepen the kiss and run her fingers through the other girl's hair, it was with continuous precision and care; not once would she ever tug, yank, or pull at the roots as her opponent would so hopelessly yearn for. A faint sense of longing was present as she traced her lips along the witch's jaw line, careful not to leave a lasting mark.

Lambda dared not to close her eyes – how could she, with such a boring display of affection? It's not like the moan that just happened to escape from her lips actually meant anything. Perhaps her eyelids would flutter once or twice as her rival let out a gentle purr, but really, it was just a coincidence.

And within mere seconds, the moment would be over, and all that would be left on Bern's face was an empty gaze… no love, no hatred, no sensuality, not even a trace of emotion. Simply apathy; nothing more, nothing less.

Lambda sighed, breathless and flustered.

Bern certainly was the cruelest witch in the world.