You know that visions and forewarnings of the future are a natural part of the world. You further know, Constance, daughter of giants, that they are drawn to you like metal to a lodestone. It is for this reason that you walk like a madwoman to the tournament, your eyes unseeing, as if struck dumb by grief. Your mind reels and whirls as you feel the weight of what you have seen: death in Lostwithiel, war between the king and the duchess, Merlin reclaiming the treasure he left in your safekeeping. Will you fail, Constance? Is this your doing somehow? Or are you the only one who may avert it? Or is this fated to be, and your struggle against it will only bring it about?

No. You rally within yourself as you mount the steps, your feet sure on the path that has seared your eyes. If it will be, then you will struggle against it in vain hope. Better to take arms than to lay them aside.

The shocked face of the duchess swims before you. You are in the royal box, and this is where you are meant to be. There is the crack of lance upon lance, the crack of doom upon Lostwithiel.

“I see Lostwithiel stand against the crown,” you pronounce, too loud, too wild. “Against a black sea and a silver surf, the unicorn stands alone. I have seen a sword returned to its keeper; I have seen brother standing against sister. The land cries out its grief in days to come.” The words ignite in you; you stand tall and straight like a brand leaping to life against the night sky, and then just as suddenly crumple like ash. Your footing is unsteady; someone pulls you into their grasp to keep you from falling limp into the stands.

[An [b]8[/b] — you fill the Duchess with faith, yet a complication arises.]