At first, Safi thought she’d done it. That just by touching the chain and willing her friends to be better, she had stopped the doom and interfered with Henrick’s command. Leopold seemed to think the same, for his posture softened as if on the cusp of an apology.

But then Lev’s voice croaked out. “He has a message.”

“Yes,” Caden wheezed, a broken beat later. “He says you will not … get far. He will find you.”

And Safi realized in that moment that she had done nothing; Henrick had simply released them and finished his punishment.

Leopold realized the same. His sneer returned, hard eyes sweeping over the Hell-Bards before settling at last on Safi. “Do you still believe they should have joined us?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. Safi clambered to her feet and met Leopold’s gaze. “And the Hell-Bards are with us now, so our course is set no matter what.”

“Oh yes,” he answered softly, and his eyes lingered on her neck, keen as a hawk’s. No, as a crow’s. Two breaths passed. He knows, Safi realized, watching as he smiled. He sees my own doom.

Yet the prince made no comment on the lines that must be tracing there. He simply said, “Our course is set, Safiya, so let us hope you chose the right one.” Then he returned to the tiller, graceful as a prince crossing a ballroom. Graceful as a crow taking flight.

It was like before. As soon as the golden chain touched Iseult’s skin, she was inside the Dreaming. Gray waves undulated around her. The sense of endless expanse somehow condensed to muffled containment.

Beside her, Corlant stood, his Threads twice as bright—and twice as wrong too, for the icy core shone silvery here.

“The souls,” Iseult began, lifting a hand to the wave of shadows speeding their way. She’d once read of tidal waves, massive and destructive. How people could do nothing but watch as the deadly waters charged in.

She felt like that now. Helpless to escape the voices and ghost hands that wanted to drag her down.

Except they did not reach her like before. This time, as the broken Threads and vague shapes barreled close, Corlant lifted a single hand, and the Hell-Bard ghosts parted. Splitting left and right, they streamed around Iseult and Corlant like a river glides around stone.

Cold heaved against Iseult, shouts, screams, pleas from the damned. But she simply watched them pass. It was like the image from the diary, the one Esme had shown Iseult, of a single leader at the Loom’s heart

But that person couldn’t be Corlant. He was the first bound to it, not the Loom’s creator. Which meant if he could move here, then so could she. “How do you do that?”

Corlant turned to her. Here, his one eye was golden and unhurt. Iseult glanced down. She too was healed, her fingers unmarred.