Pangea made her sweat.

The walls - invisible, but palpable - crawled under her collar and forced their talons into her skin. She did not love anything, but she felt something once for the cragged landscape and its barren, hated expanse. She did not love, but she felt something for the land of misfits. She did not love, but she belonged.

Or she did. Now? She fled its thick borders and headed for more neutral ground, a placed where she didn't feel the cold grip of responsibility closing on her. She wanted to be the biggest fish, she was a tadpole - it made her uncomfortable. As did the growth of her daughter, the scaled thing with the poison in her veins.

No, Harmonia wouldn't stay much longer.
But where would she go?

She toys with these thoughts using her magic, picking up things with her mind and promptly destroying them. They'd rise, they'd fall, they'd burn. She picked up each individual flower and decimated it with her mind. No survivors.