She paused, looking up. She was not one given to prayer, nor to hope. Indeed, it was that very despair, that mystery of the far north where dragons surely died, where they must die, that had driven her into her madness. It had driven her to steal the armour in her jealousy, having made her pact with the dark power of old magic that the Mistress offered her, the very same foolish mistake that had forced her dear friend that only she remembered out of all of them that were alive to remember her, to chase after her that she might be rescued. She probably could have. After all, she very nearly did, and had she succeeded, Meranax would not have been surprised. She had done so time and again.