Eventually the silver Threads faded. Eventually the sun rose. And eventually signs of humanity laid claim to the forest. A well-trod road, cleared fields for grazing, and finally fieldstone huts with thatched roofs. A family’s farm, one of thousands like it spread throughout the Ohrin Mountains. Sheep called from within fences as Lady Sea Fox and Lord Storm Hound passed. A lone dog barked his alarm, ears high and gray fur thick upon his back.

Soon, Iseult heard the villagers. Shouts as if soldiers corralled. Cries as if families resisted. Then came the Threads—later than they should’ve come, muted and slow. Fear and rage, violence and obedience.

Corlant. He was here. It was the only explanation for so many pallid Threads: a Cursewitch’s power and corrupted touch.

The cries of the village. Owl’s Threads blanked out, and Iseult’s fingers tightened into fists. White, white, always white. One day, Iseult would make sure the child never felt fear again.

An empty promise. One more failure to add to her growing list. She could no more help Owl than she could help herself. Please, weasel. Please come.

The commotion brimmed louder, bouncing off stone walls. Threads tangled and clotted at the center of the village, and as the horses rounded a corner, chaos unfolded before Iseult’s eyes: an open square turned to mud by hooves and shepherd boots. Sixteen people kneeling, backs bent and Threads saturated by uniform terror. Two children weeping. And twelve women and men with blades out and Purist robes billowing on a winter wind.

At the center of the yard, where an ancient well slouched, stood Corlant. He’s so tall, Iseult thought distantly as the horses continued their approach. She’d forgotten how much he towered over everyone, hair oily and eyebrows perpetually high. With furs atop his shoulders, he looked broader. Commanding, even, as he smiled at the sight of Iseult.

“Your timing is perfect,” he called. He flung open his arms like a performer.

And Iseult blinked. She’d only ever heard him speak Nomatsi, yet now he spoke Arithuanian—no accent, no stumbling.

“Get them off the horses,” he commanded. Aeduan dismounted and dragged down Iseult too. She hit the earth with a knee-snapping jolt, no balance with her wrists still tied, before Aeduan pushed her toward the well.

Owl whimpered.

“Gag her,” Corlant ordered once Iseult was before him. “It is her fangs we must watch out for.” His Threads sharpened with anticipation. He knew what Iseult’s true magic was. Somehow he knew she needed her mouth, needed her teeth in order to cleave.

He smiled as Aeduan grabbed the back of Iseult’s head and thrust in the old filthy wool. She tried to avoid the Bloodwitch, but he was stronger. The cloth filled her mouth, her eyes burned, and she gagged ineffectually against bile rising in her throat.

Owl’s tiny sobs joined with the other children’s.