**POV Laplace**
Hahahaha.
The melody of his agony resonated within me like a symphony of out-of-tune violins. Ignis, that puppet of flesh and bone, was tearing himself apart with every step he took toward the caravan. His despair was an aged wine on my palate; his tragedy, a poem written in tears and mud. Oh, how I reveled in his downfall!
I had ripped the page from the grimoire with the fury of a petulant child destroying their favorite toy. And Aria... that self-righteous prude with her saintly aura, lying on the ground like a dirty rag. What a delight to see her abandoned without a shred of remorse! Of course, he wouldn't feel any—poor Ignis was too busy drowning in his own sea of guilt.
I could feel every spasm of his mind, every shred of thought floating in the whirlwind of his consciousness. *"Nox... the ritual... my fault..."*. A chorus of broken voices, a kaleidoscope of madness. It wasn't noise—it was a symphony.
