She was the Lady of the Ellylon and his betrothed, the key to fulfilling Haomane's Prophecy. They would not relent until she was freed or the plains of Curonan were churned to red mud with the last of their dying blood.
And Lord Satoris in his immortal pride and folly would revel in it.
Death was the only certainty. Whatever else transpired, the ravens of Darkhaven would feast on the flesh of foes and allies alike. The thought of it made her shudder to the bone. The hand of Haomane's Prophecy hovered over her, a bright and terrible shadow, filled with the twinned promise of hope and bloodshed. Although she wished it otherwise, she could see, now, how they were intertwined.
All things were as they must be. Light and dark, bound together in an inextricable battle. The paths that led them here were beginning to narrow. Soon, it would not matter what might have been. Only what was.
She was afraid, and weary of being alone with her fear.
Hurry, Cerelinde prayed. Oh, hurry!
And she was no longer sure, in that moment, to whom or for what she prayed.
Of all the things that had befallen her in Darkhaven, this was surely the most fearful.