The atmosphere changes the moment she's spoken, the temperature plummets and a deathly hush descends.
The Voice is shaking, its flesh like plastic draining of colour, ageing centuries in mere seconds. Cracks begin to appear in its skin, mouth and eyes darken and a primordial howl fills the air. The doll leaps across the court, landing on Fiona's chest, grabbing her collar to steady itself.
“Corvus is here?” It demands, in a voice full of rage. “In the Weave?”
Fiona nods, terrified.
The doll places a hand on her forehead. “You will sleep now,” it commands, and the world goes dark.
