"I knew your heart before I knew you," answers Aeriel, nearly shy to speak of it. Lifetimes ago, when he had not been Irrylath-- the night they had married-- even then, sheathed in cold and bereft of blood, she had seen something of his heart. Had known she could not slay him, though she'd sworn to do it. (And she'd done it; the darkangel had died, that night. It is only that she had not foreseen Irrylath, had not known that Avaric's prince lived beneath the lead.)

She leans against him, content, the voice of her blood a dim murmur. There is no danger of this world falling around them. "I will not leave you, here," she answers, savoring the freedom to make a choice, though there is no more danger of her refuting him now than there was of her keeping him at home. Equal certainty: but here, no regret. "I am your wife, after all."