"He is strong." Whispers the voice, a lilting hiss through the shadows.
"But his magic is weak." Says another, quick to counter the first.
"It is not weak . . . but slumbering." Chimes a third, its voice smooth and light like a spring day.
Gathered around the viewing pool – held in a large, round basin of black opal – stands four cloaked figures. Hunched over, they stare at the glassy surface of the water, filled to the brim. Through it they can see the young rogue training in the castle courtyard. His sapphire eyes glow with their own wildfire, his ebony black hair sticking to his gleaming forehead.
The pool itself is ancient – its ornate carvings long since eroded away by the hands of time, areas of the lip smoothed inward from the many others before who have rested their hands on it.
The basin sits at the epicenter of the stone rotunda, thick columns supporting the intricately carved dome above. Their painted colors have also faded into a dull mute of what they used to be; the priests and priestesses having long since vanished, though the room still vibrates from ghostly prayers carried on the winds.
A single ray of silver moonlight pierces the darkness of the room through the oculus at the top of the dome. With it, the glassy water is illuminated to show whomever they wish.
Each of their faces are concealed in the shadows of their hoods; each sparing a glance at the other. Barely a turn of their heads.
"Are we sure he is the one? The boy barely shows any signs of the healing abilities of his ancestors." The fourth cloaked figure speaks, angling its head ever so slightly. A cat observing its prey.
"We shall test that soon," a female voice that is both young and old, amused and soulless, purrs. "Opportunities are arising."
A spider's smile. Gatherings of her glossy raven-black hair spill over her pale shoulder.
"He is beginning to adore the Queen of Arendelle – whether he is aware of it, or not. We will use that."
Approaching the front of the viewing pool is a woman who bears no cloak. Instead she wears a gown of violet purple. The skirt trails behind her, dripping along the three steps up to the pool. The fitted sleeves come to a point, delicate silver jewelry adorning her long, elegant neck.
Regal and stunning, a queen without a throne.
"Shall we continue to use the royals to our advantage?" Hisses the first figure.
Barely acknowledging their existence, the woman says, "Yes." A long-nailed finger taps the gemstone basin. "But we must get him alone. His blood must flow so we many know if he is the one."
She places both palms on the lip of the basin. She casts a shadowy gaze to all of the figures gathered.
Her voice drops low and raspy; the voice of a demon, not of a woman. "But do not, kill him."
A rippling of the cloaks, the only sign of surprise as they step back, disturbed.
"Should any harm come to him," she continues. "I will drink the marrow from your bones."
A shift of the hoods – a dip of the chins.
"Be gone."
The people disperse on quick feet. She smiles at their fear, drinks it like the finest wine. Revels in how they yearn to get away from her.
She's grown to love having that effect on people. The only semblance of pleasure for her hollowed heart.
With her palms still on the lip, she looks down at the picture: the young rogue is gathering his weapons, sheathing them all skillfully in smooth motions. The pool continues to follow the young man as he opens the oak doors to the castle, disappearing into the halls as he turns a corner.
She extends a hand as white as moonlight over the pool. Her long nails gleaming as she taps the water as gentle as a butterfly. Deep ripples spread across the surface of the pool, distorting the image until it is gone. The surface glazed once more.
He's a tough man to track. But finally, she has found him.
He will not escape her now.