She charged the Purists closing in around the Nomatsis—not with her body, but with her magic. With her fangs.

At the nearest man, Iseult grabbed his Threads. Yank and bite. He cleaved in an instant. So easily, his Threads already weakened by a Cursewitch’s control. But just as she’d done with the Cartorran soldiers, Iseult didn’t release him. She simply wound his Threads, electric and alive, around her hand and commanded.

He attacked another Purist, giving the Nomatsis the moment they needed. Hunters charged against their captors while the untrained ran. Blades clashed and bows loosed. Fletching of all shades ripped atop Threads of violence and pain.

No time to watch, no time to celebrate. Iseult latched on to a second Purist. Then a third, yanking and biting, yanking and biting. Where she commanded them, they moved, and all while more Nomatsis escaped for the trees.

But not her mother, not Alma. They were nowhere to be seen, and already Iseult was losing her poise. So many Threads were leashed to her, but she had no staff or tree to lean against.

Worse, the silver Threads cycloned toward her. Pummeling and cold. She released all the Cleaved Purists. Her body swayed. She was going to fall before it even reached her.

Hands caught her. Strong arms steadied her. And birds floated across her vision. “Aeduan,” she said, trying and failing to pull free. Cold beat against her. Cleaved oil sprayed and bodies fell.

“This way.” His voice was near her ear, his grip firm as he hauled her back the way she’d come.

She resisted. Now that she had released the Severed Threads, dregs of power pulsed through her. Bolstered her muscles, sharpened her eyes, and sent her instincts charging back to life. “Not yet.”

Mother, Mother—she needed to find her mother. As she dug her feet into the ground, hoarfrost gathered around her. Threads blared. The ground trembled. “Mother!” she shouted at Aeduan. “Where is she?”

This time Aeduan heard her question. “There.” He pointed.

Iseult spun right as purple Threads coagulated into her senses. They pooled with scarlet rage and exuded Cursewitch power. Most shocking of all, they glimmered with sunset family and the warmth of amaranth Threads that bind.

The wyrm paused its advance at Corlant’s arrival. Then it skittered sideways, like a dog obeying its master. And the Purists—what few remained—also drew back, revealing their priest. The top half of his face was bandaged, his eyes covered by blood-soaked cloths. His Purist robe whipped around him on an unnatural breeze.

He clearly couldn’t see, yet he also didn’t need to. Just as Iseult had escaped the Pragan palace without her sight, Corlant could navigate the world by feeling Threads.

At his side, her head bowed, stood Gretchya.