Iseult blinked, while all around, Purists sucked in their breaths. Their Threads melted into pink delight. Maybe they’d always enjoyed dominance and pain, or maybe Corlant had brought that out in them. Either way, Iseult was again struck by their willingness to overlook the truth. She was a witch. Corlant was a witch. But these people didn’t care so long as others with magic suffered.

“She has no Threads,” Iseult said eventually. She watched Alma’s back. Watched the steady movement of the girl’s ribs. Alma offered no cries. No begging.

“Of course she has Threads,” Corlant countered. “All life has Threads. You simply cannot see them.” His Threads simmered with purple. He was a lion eyeing its next meal. “In the Dreaming, though, you can see them. So much more is visible there.”

Iseult brushed snow off her lashes and frozen cheeks. “I cannot enter the Dreaming.”

Corlant’s Threads glistened a deeper purple. “If you are in the right place, then the wall between worlds disappears.”

Iseult perked up slightly at that. Esme had once spoken of such a thing: You must be in one of the old places. Somewhere like my tower, where the wall between this world and the Old Ones’ is thinner.

“So these ruins?” She opened her arms. “Are they an old place? Can I enter here?”

Corlant didn’t answer. Instead, he shook his head. “Relying on the Dreaming is an inconvenience. You are unprotected while there, your body exposed. As such, you must learn to find Threads even when you cannot see them.” He pointed at Alma with a single spindly finger. “Now find her Threads and cleave her.”

Iseult wet her lips and did nothing. Alma still showed no fear. Snow gathered in a white film across her back.

“Feel for her Threads as I do, Iseult. Then take her power for yours.”

Iseult wet her lips again. Something wiggled in her chest—something she didn’t like. And with a twist of her nose, she stamped it into oblivion. Stasis through and through. As cold as the snow building around her feet. “How can I feel for Threads when my hands are like this?” She lifted her bandages.

“Her Threads will not hurt you. Not as badly as mine did, at least.” He grinned. His own bandages oozed.

“In that case, I want someone with more power.”

Now his smile stiffened. A flicker of annoyance reached his Threads. “She is all that remains, Iseult.” He swiped a hand toward the tent. “I could not allow those traitors to use their magic on me, so I had to purify them. Besides, Iseult, Threadwitches have more power than you can possibly imagine. They—and you—see what people feel. What is more powerful than that?”