“You can do it too, Iseult. All you need is more power.” Corlant seemed only to whisper, yet the words cut directly into Iseult’s ears. As if his lips were against her, each breath made of ice. “But first you must find the Threadstones. Use your magic to locate them in the Loom.”

Iseult shuddered—and Corlant smiled. “I don’t know how to find them.” She pulled her gaze from him to stare at the Hell-Bards, still closing in.

So many lost lives. And one of them, somewhere, was Safi.

“Imagine what it felt like to use the stones. Imagine what it feels like to be bound to your Threadsister.”

“Maybe if you told me what the stones were, I could find them—”

“You will learn soon.” Annoyed red whipped up his Threads. “Once I possess the stones again, I will show you. First, though, we must find them. Now imagine.” He reached for Iseult, his palm flat as if to touch her forehead—as if to steal her magic like he’d taken the Herdwitch’s. She reeled back. Her heel hit the current of shadows.

And the ghosts swept her away. So fast, she had no time to cry out. So hard, she had no strength to fight. The dead carried her, and it was worse than before. This time, the souls claimed her before she had a goal. All she could do was be punched along, carried by a thousand cold hands and screamed at by a thousand lost throats. She became their fury, she became their need.

Living, living, they seemed to shriek at her. Breath and living. But there was a second refrain too, from new souls—younger and sharper, with Severed Threads still pulsing with hope. Threads that heal, Threads that thrive.

“I can’t help you,” she wanted to say, but all that came out was choking and ice. Claws stabbed and her spine cracked. Living, living, breath and living. Threads that heal, Threads that thrive. On and on they carried her. Over and over they broke her. Punishment for all her sins. For the Void that lived inside her.

But then she heard something—a voice she knew. A voice she loved. “Weasels piss on you. You’re not supposed to be here.”

Instantly, Iseult’s mind sharpened, homing in on that sound. On the certainty that filled her as soon as she heard it. And like anchors dropping overboard, Iseult’s limbs solidified. Her body, her soul—they stopped their free-fall tumble through the tidal wave of souls.

She found her feet. “Safi?” She imagined the timbre of what she’d just heard. The emotion behind it—Weasels piss on you!—and the sideways grin attached. She imagined how it sounded when Safi spoke in real life, cavalier and crass; she imagined how it felt when Safi spoke across the Threadstones, more reticent, more exposed.