“You will enjoy this,” Corlant murmured to Iseult, closing the space between them. So tall. He ran a single finger down her jaw, and though she screamed stasis within, her body could not obey. Iseult recoiled, and Corlant laughed. Then, with that same finger, he beckoned to the nearest Purist.

“The Herdwitch,” he said. “Bring him to me.” The Purist grabbed for a man at the edge of the kneeling family. The man yelped. His Threads ignited with fear while beside him a woman reached for him. “No, please no—”

A second Purist kicked her, square in the back. She splayed out on the mud, a cry scraping from her throat. Iseult moved, muscles reacting without thought. She would attack that Purist, attack Corlant—

Aeduan moved faster. He yanked her back, arm sliding over her throat. He squeezed. Her vision crossed. “Stay.”

Iseult nodded. She had no choice. And though she wanted to screw her eyes shut as Owl did, she forced them to stay open. She forced herself to witness Corlant’s powers in action.

The first Purist hauled the Herdwitch to Corlant. Sheep bleated frantically; in the distance, a dog howled.

“Blessed are the pure,” Corlant told the man as he drew him close and placed his palm upon the man’s forehead. “May you become as clean as Midne, as pure as the world when it was born.” With his free hand, he grabbed at the air above the man’s head, at Threads pale with terror.

Iseult could do nothing but gaze on, her belly sinking like a stone. Her breaths coming in shallow gasps.

She might have seen Corlant’s magic at the Midenzi settlement—seen how his presence faded Threads like rain erases paint—but she’d never encountered his magic used openly. She’d never watched as he slashed away the very power that made this Herdwitch who he was.

As Corlant’s long fingers curled around the man’s Threads, they grew fainter, fainter. The man’s body limper and more slumped.

“Don’t,” begged the woman. She did not rise from the mud. “Please, please leave him—”

A streak of gray bolted into the yard. Snarling, barking, the dog from before surged around the Purists and aimed straight for Corlant.

“No,” the Herdwitch mumbled, a desperate, broken sound. Then the last of his Herdwitch Threads swelled into Corlant, like a vine coiling around a tree. Corlant laughed, and as the dog reached him, teeth bared and legs ready to leap, Corlant snapped a single hand toward the dog.

The dog stopped in its tracks. Its fur settled, its teeth vanished behind suddenly loose jowls. A whine wisped from its throat.