It was too late anyway. Across the room, Corlant’s Threads were changing. Melting out of sleep, quickly, quickly.

Two heartbeats later, he awoke.

Iseult kept her hand over Owl’s mouth, watching as Corlant slid into full awareness. “Hide,” she ordered the weasel while shoving Owl back onto the cot as if she’d never been unbound. Then she arranged her own limbs exactly as they had been.

Her arms throbbed. Her heart drummed. But she kept her body still as Corlant dragged himself off his cot … then across the room. His Threads brightened with each step. He hugged his robe against the cabin’s cold.

His eyes, shining in the shadows, lit on the gags strewn across the floor. He chuckled; orchid pleasure sprayed across his Threads. “Clever,” he murmured, snagging the dirty wool. “But useless.” He moved first for Iseult, long fingers extended. Aiming for her forehead, exactly as he’d touched the Herdwitch before. A warning and a reminder of what he could do.

His cold palm touched Iseult’s skin. Her body screamed, but she didn’t pull away. She didn’t move at all. As long as he thought her hands still bound, she had the advantage.

His free hand reached for her chin.

She kneed him in the groin. With all her strength, all her rage. Then her fingers launched for his eyes. In at the edges, out toward the ears.

Corlant had no time to scream or even double over before she had her thumbs behind his eyeballs. Hot, squishy—a move she’d learned but never used. In at the edges, out toward the ears. She yanked. Corlant screamed. But it was too late for him to stop Iseult. She had dug deep into the blood vessels and pulled with all her might.

The right eye came loose, popping free with a squelch Iseult felt more than heard over Corlant’s rising roars. The left eye resisted—so she left it there. Now was the time to run. Before Aeduan or Evrane could fully understand what was happening. Before the Purists outside, now rushing in, could reach her. And before, most dangerous of all, Corlant could try to use his magic.

As Corlant toppled toward the bunk, Owl scrabbled to the floor. “Follow the weasel,” Iseult ordered while she grabbed for Corlant’s pocket and the diary within. He could not fight back. His Threads seared with anger-tinged pain, and his hands clutched at his face.

His dangling eye glistened in the pale light.

Iseult found the diary, tore it out, and dove toward the door after Owl. The Purists barely registered her, for the Hell-Bards had arrived. Shouts and clashing weapons tore out. Threads churned and violence darkened each set. Nobody noticed Iseult or Owl hurrying by in the shadows.