Glinda doesn't flinch. If anything, she stills, chin lifting, spine straightening, that familiar poise snapping into place like armor polished to a blinding sheen. Her smile is small, tight, and absolutely humorless.
"Ah," she guffaws delicately, sweet as spun sugar and twice as sharp, "I didn't realize cruelty had become a prerequisite for adulthood." Her gaze flicks to the emerald rings, lingers just long enough to make the point, then returns to his face, unblinking, "Placing bets on fear, mocking the people you attempt to rule, and hiding behind your brother's shadow does not make you powerful. It makes you predictable."
She steps closer, a sparkle in her gaze that announces her criticism of his entire attire, including the attitude he's provided.
"You want to call it a witch hunt? Fine. I call it cowardice dressed up as governance. And if you think I'm going to 'shoo' while you gamble with lives like they're chips on a table..." A soft laugh escapes her, cold yet as bright as her singing. "...you've forgotten who you're speaking to. I am not propaganda. I am the reason the people are still listening at all. So do be careful, because kingdoms do not fall to glitter wands." Now, her eyes harden. "They fall to men who confuse contempt for control." There, Glinda turns on her heel, tulle of her elegant pink skirt whispering, "Enjoy your bets," she resonates over her petite shoulder.
