If Balthazar had taken one wrist, and her father the other, and both had pulled as fiercely as they could, it could do no more than his words had to make Aurora feel as if she were being torn in two.  On the one hand; he was Balthazar, the Black, sorceror of dread reputation, boogeyman, nightmare.  She had been conditioned since childhood to fear his legacy, his taint upon their line, his very name.<br/><br/>On the other, her ambition.  The promises he offered (even if she was so blinded that she could not see the subtleties and dual meanings of what temptatiosn he offered) to fulfill her heart's content.  She wanted to be Queen, wanted it bad enough to taste it.<br/><br/>But in the end, fear trumped ambition, she recoiled from his touch, turned, and fled with a shriek.  "No!" she cried, and fled, running blindly into the red void.