that's not your face
The ice offers full view of the body entombed within. All angles. All degrees.
Fan cannot detect the line cracking the mask that she knows must be there.
Blood. Ether lines, perhaps. Some distorted clue.
This woman should be dead. Rather, she is dead.
Mutilated.
If so, she has no right to silently threaten the identity of Fan la Norne, Goddess of the Praetorium and Blade of the Praetor.
Wind cannot melt this ice, not like water can damp fire and earth can couch lightning.
Her staff shatters into a million fragments as she beats at the false frozen cage.