The beast wolfed down its prey ravenously. Veron's feral presentation and choice of words throughout their little exchange revealed much. The spider had peered beyond the cracks and glimpsed fragments of the man before her. She wasn't impressed or amused. He was an unscrupulous and lost soul, a damaged man—the remnant of a world that had surrendered itself to its lesser inclinations. She regarded him as a child, a dolt who had become drunk on power and satisfying his hedonistic wants. 

What sort of king would denote the people he served as his own? What sort of fool wouldn't see the destruction of all that was as anything less than a thorough drubbing? The Araneae gathered no semblance of remorse or personal accountability. Veron appeared to be walking through a waking dream. There was a disconnect, as if the whole was fragmented and sought to reform into the despicable image of a past self. Who was Veron? He was nothing. 

Veron was a man without purpose and anchor—a blighted soul damaged by madness and the wickedness of yesteryear. A man-child who fell and yet learned nothing. A rule that, instead of showing his people how they might live, demonstrated how they would fall. The miasma of egocentricity and butchery was evident. Its rank was so potent it overpowered the earthy aroma of the wilderness. But at least the rat stood as a testament and an affidavit.

He embodied the universe's imbalance and injustice. So many had perished during the collapse of what was, yet the contemptible creature somehow survived. Valerna at least respected his resolve and tenacity. If only such grit had been applied to something of substance, then the rash king would have produced something of merit. She wouldn't waste her effort tutoring this animal. She learned long ago not to wrestle with or cast pearls before swine. They enjoy the mud and will only trample such precious things into the squalid earth. 

It wouldn't be long before the bloodied husk that was Veron concluded his piggish feast. The grub rose, peeking over her way with a vacant expression. The words that escaped his lips were hollow, bereft of care or awareness—yet another manifestation of his brokenness. The comment he blabbed her way was nonsensical, devoid of context, and thus deemed vapid—noise for the sake of noise. Despite this harsh perspective on the man, she'd humor him for a bit longer. 

"If you mean a metaphorical mirror, yes. Unlike you, I know what I am. I don't have the luxury of self-denial. The answer remains unchanged if your question is aimed at a physical mirror. If this is meant to highlight my monstrous veneer, save your breath. It is better to be born a monster and master yourself. Then, to be a king who has yet to conquer his lesser proclivities. 

Let's not stand on ceremony here. There is no need to weigh my words or mull over them, and I'm well aware that my speaking is a waste of breath. Unlike the boar, I don't fear you because I don't fear broken men. Your ego has sapped you of your strength, and hedonism has defeated you. As you are now, you're impotent and a waste of life. The unvierse elected not to eradicate you. Your sentence will be far more severe. 

Bravado and valor are effective mechanisms for the uninitiated. Nonetheless, Veron, we aren't nascent souls. We have both been baptized by conflict. Yet only one of us evolved while the other remained stagnant. I derive no pride, pity, or remorse from this exchange. What I take away from it is a mirror of the man I see before me—nothing. 

I hope these words start a fire in you and that flames and smoke rise. That somehow, nothing can become something. Collect what you once were instead of wafting like an errant ember soon to be extinguished. What I wish to see is a miracle." She spoke candidly, wanting to clarify her position with the man before they started this little journey. Her tone was harsh, like a mother who disapproved of her son's antics.