“Mother,” Iseult repeated, and had Aeduan not held her back, she would have bolted forward. It was good Aeduan was there. Good she had that half-second pause for logic to serrate in.

Gretchya, unbound and demure. Mother, head bent and willing. It was a pose Iseult had seen her mother wear most of her life, whenever Corlant was near. Whenever he’d come around and forced her to unbolt the rusted lock above the door. Iseult never understood why she’d done it, or fully understood why Corlant had always been there.

Even now, as an answer cemented in her belly—in that secret corner beneath her left lung—she couldn’t look at it. She couldn’t face it.

“Mother?” Iseult said again, but this time it was a question. And this time, it was so, so loud. A single word to split a newly silenced world. Iseult’s Cleaved were dead, the remaining Nomatsis subdued, and the Purists kneeling upon the hard earth. The monster had retreated into darkness cast by ruined stone, and were it not for its silver Threads—dampened once more—Iseult would never have seen it there.

There were no footsteps, no jangling belts or weaponry. It was as if the day itself held its breath. Everyone, everything was transfixed by Corlant. His Threads shone above all others, the purple hunger practically lighting up the sky.

Iseult reached for her sword. Then patted empty air because of course there was no sword. She was a fool. Always a fool.

But she still had her fangs and her magic. She would kill Corlant—and kill his monster too, if she had to. They could not have Gretchya, not now that Iseult was a Weaverwitch who could fight back.

Threadwitches might not harm, but Puppeteers did.

Iseult sank into her stance. Stretched out one hand, fingers clawed and ready to grab, to yank. Her teeth were ready too, her jaw creaking wide.

Corlant must have sensed her plan, though, for he smiled. The cloths on his face wrinkled, made the bloodstains shrink like red eyes. Meanwhile pink joy spread across his Threads, a disturbing contrast against the muted gray weave of death and shadow.

Iseult had been here before. She had watched as Corlant had pinned her with that same ravenous attention. Then watched as he had lifted his hands with deliberate slowness and crossed his thumbs in the sign to ward off evil.

Except this time, he did not make that symbol. This time, he opened his hands as if in welcome. “My daughter,” he said, so softly she almost did not hear. Then again, his smile widening: “My daughter, come join your mother and father.”

Daughter. A meaningless word that clunked around in Iseult’s skull. That hardened her muscles, holding them still when they ought to move, and wormed through her gut, cold and vicious and impossible.

Daughter. My daughter.