“Nor I.” The Shaper sighed. “Though I fear it is I who has set them ringing, I do not relish the sound, Cerelinde.”

Cerelinde stroked the seared petals of the sorrow-bells, feeling them shudder under her fingertips. Aracus. “What have you done, my Lord?” she murmured, the blood running cold in her veins at the Shaper’s words.

“There was time when I did,” he mused. “It was sweet to my ears, a gratifying reminder that you Lesser Shapers are more than capable of wounding one another to the quick without my aid. And yet, I find it not so sweet when I am the cause. Vengeance sours quickly upon the palate when it fails to find its rightful target. It was never my wish to be what fate has made me, Lady.”

Cerelinde straightened and took a step forward. “What have you done?”

“Have no fear.” A hint of contempt edged his voice. “The Son of Altorus is safe enough. It was no one you knew, Lady. Victims of Haomane’s Wrath, once. Now victims of mine. This time, they brought it upon themselves.”

“The Charred Folk.” The knowledge brought relief, and a different sorrow. “Ah, my Lord. Why?”

“Will you tell me you do not know?” the Shaper asked.

“My Lord.” Cerelinde spread her hands. “I do not.”

“Senseless.” Reaching down, Lord Satoris wrenched a handful of sorrow-bells from the earth. Throttling them in his grip, he regarded the thin, trailing roots twitching below. The fragile petals drooped against his dark flesh, still emitting a faint peal. “How so?” he asked the shuddering blossoms. “I Shaped you and gave you existence. Why do you sound for their deaths? Senseless? How so, when they seek to use the Water of Life to extinguish the marrow-fire? How so, when they seek to destroy me?”

Hope leapt in Cerelinde’s breast, warring with unease. “Haomane’s Prophecy,” she breathed.

“Haomane’s Prophecy” He echoed the words with derision, tossing the wilting plants at her feet. “My Elder Brother’s Prophecy is the framework of his will, nothing more, and you are the tools with which he builds it. Do not be so quick to hope, Lady. I have a will of my own, and tools at my disposal.”

Root tendrils writhed over the toes of her slippers and the dying bells’ ringing faded to a whimper, while those left in the bed keened anew in mourning. The Sunderer was in a strange mood, untrustworthy and fey. The copper-sweet tang of his blood mingled with the lingering odor of sulfur. If he were willing to turn upon Darkhaven itself, what hope was there for her? Cerelinde repressed a shudder, mortally tired of living on the knife-edge of fear.

“Why not end it?” she asked, feeling weary and defeated. “If it’s the Prophecy you fear, why not simply take my life? Your Vorax would be glad enough to do it.”

“No,” he said simply. “I will not.”