Moragon continued moving towards Amber, the light from the window glinting from the steel of his sword. "I don't believe you. You wouldn't do it."

"Don't come a single step closer," Amber said. Her eyes were wild, and there was a hysterical note to her voice.

"Give him to me," Moragon said. He laid down the sword on the floor and held out his hands in supplication.

He wanted his son more than anything; with the end of the Primate's vision for the world the child was now the only thing he had left. The Tingaran loremasters who had given Moragon his arm of metal, making him into a melding, rather than a cripple, had told Moragon he would never father a child as a result of the magic. The child was a miracle. They had been proven wrong.

As Moragon took one step closer, Amber leaned out the window as far as she could, and let the bundle go.

"No!" Moragon shoved her to the side and leaned out the window. He could see that the bundle had slid a short way down the sloping wall and then stopped when it hit a gutter. Below the gutter there was nothing more to stop it from tumbling down to the ground far below, where the babe would certainly be killed.

Moragon leaned out as far as he could, but his son was too far out of his reach. He pushed himself through the window, heedless of the danger, with only one foot now on the floor and his body precariously positioned half-out the window.

He heard a voice behind him. Where Amber's voice had been meek, it was now strong and confident.

"Let's see you regenerate your way out of this," Amber said.

Moragon felt a heaving on his body, and as precarious as his balance was he began to slip. He had one last attempt at smashing Amber with his metal arm but she ducked out of the way, and Moragon's blow instead took a bite out of the stone of the window frame.

He scrabbled and slid on the sloping wall, his eyes still on the bundle that perched against the lip of the gutter. Moragon reached the bundle and grabbed at it even as he tried to arrest his motion, his hands closing on nothing but cloth.

"You witch!" he screamed up at Amber.

He slipped down and over the gutter, catching onto the lip of stone with his fingertips. He looked up at Amber, where she looked at him from the window with cold eyes.

Moragon saw she held the baby in her arms.

"The child isn't yours," Amber said. "It never was. I was already with child before we met."

They were the last words Moragon heard, as he fell through the air, screaming as he went, until he hit the hard stone of an innocuous garden wall.