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Eret stares at itself in the mirror.
It's all dressed up in its royal garb, shirt collar just tight enough to make it feel like it's choking, robe not heavy enough to provide it any sort of comfort, crown placed delicately on its head. It has carefully crafted its appearance to be as put-together as possible.
Dream had told it "Come to this meeting". Apparently they're discussing how to deal with Schlatt's desire to expand his borders. Dream had said "You're the king, you need to be there", as if Eret hasn't recently been discovering its crown meant nothing at all.
That golden trap sits beautifully on its head.
Eret takes its crown off and stares, marveling at the construction. Beautiful gold, a rainbow of gems, fashioned exactly as requested.
It stares at itself in the mirror. It's royal. It's beautiful. It is all dressed up in the kind of way that is starting to make it sick.
Dream demands that it keep up appearances.
In a moment that barely processes, it throws its crown at the mirror.
The shattering of the mirror is comparatively very, very loud. There are cracks all along its surface, spiderwebbing out and distorting Eret's face. That fucking crown lays on the ground with a slight dent, surrounded by tiny reflective shards.
Eret breathes in, breathes out.
"Fuck."
It picks up its crown slowly, gingerly. One of the gems right next to the dent is loose. The imperfection could probably be hidden if Eret placed the crown correctly in its hair. Its hair has been getting long, almost unruly. Dream gives it stares.
Eret places the crown back on its head. The mirror is too cracked to tell if the deception will work.
Dream whispers to you: are you coming?
It closes its eyes, breathes in shakily, breathes out in a single rush of air.
You whisper to Dream: Of course.