As the days passed, Hildin and Gian came to Emmae every night, and sometimes during the day as well; she had no choice but to enter into everything they did to her. "I will break you soon," Hildin said once. "Every time I take you, you are a little less hesitant, a little more eager. Fight harder, darling, I'm not tired of it yet!" She cried aloud, in ecstasy and despair, and Gian licked the tears from her cheeks.
Emmae grew despondent. Meg told the Prince the girl never slept; Hildin took to using the enchanted ring to force sleep upon her.
Meanwhile, King Gethin fell from madness to near-unconsciousness; his time drew short. Hildin sat with him, watching him sleep, until his father roused and took his hand. "Warin? I knew you'd return," said the King, his voice weak and crackling, as if he breathed through water.
"I am Hildin, sir," grated the son. "Warin is dead."
"Warin dead?" wept Gethin. "Oh, my son, my only son!" Hildin snatched his hand away. Gethin cried himself into stertorous insensibility.