Through the Prism

The windowsill was bare except for a heavy glass prism left angled toward the glass. I circled it once, battleaxe lowered. No mechanism. No iron teeth. Just dense, cold crystal with razor-sharp bevels. When the afternoon sun cut through the pane, the clear block split the glare into a jagged spear of violet, green, and red light across the painted sill. I extended one spiked gauntlet into the beam. The color fractured across my knuckles, shifting tone over the weathered red armor without burning. A curious diversion. I let the colors settle across my grip before stepping back into the shadows.