Worse, Iseult and Gretchya were closing in on the Solfatarra with no goggles to help them see, no salamander fibers to protect their skin. And no way to cross the lake if they even got there.

Think, Iseult, think. The Nomatsi trail was too far away, as was the spit of land that would lead out of the Solfatarra. They were going to have to run into the fog. They were going to have to ignore the burn and risk the inhalation. And once they reached the lake’s shore …

Iseult would figure it out then. Channel Safi and think with her feet, with her palms. Her aching, bandaged palms. Because her Threadsister was near, and she had to find Safi before Corlant did. She had to get her hands on their Threadstones first.

Those rubies were the key. Everything—her safety, her mother’s life, and Alma’s fading soul—hinged on those stones. If she could only figure out why.

Shouts echoed, layered thick atop hunting Threads. There could be no pauses. Only dragging Gretchya onward. Only stumbling forward, one foot after the next.

They reached the fog, a wall of death that hid the snow, and there, waiting for them upon a pile of ancient stones, was the weasel. Esme darted for Iseult, almost invisible against the snow. As she ran, an image assembled in Iseult’s mind: Heretic’s collar, removed beneath the spruce. Owl in a ruined courtyard, seated on an ancient throne. Aeduan bound in stone.

It made no sense, and before Iseult could try to sort her way through it, shouts clashed against her. Threads too, hungry and hunting. Iseult allowed Esme to curl around her neck before pulling her mother onward toward the wall of fog.

Except Gretchya didn’t move. She jerked her arm free, shooting pain up Iseult’s arm, and when Iseult rounded on her, she found her mother’s eyes fastened on the weasel.

“What,” she began, voice weak from running, “is that?”

“The Puppeteer,” Iseult answered honestly. “Or what’s left of her. But she’s our ally, Mother, and right now, we need all the help we can get.”

Gretchya didn’t move. Her labored breaths stilled, her eyes held fast to Esme. Even the snow seemed to have paused its thick fall.

Which made the approaching Threads that much harder to ignore. An onslaught of fanatics. People willing to hunt Iseult and her mother to the end so long as it meant Corlant would favor them.

“Please, Mother.” Iseult offered her bandaged hand. “We have to move.”

Gretchya didn’t respond, and for a flicker of a heartbeat, the old heat wormed to life in Iseult’s chest. It slid up her spine. Fire to melt the cold around her. Rage, defiance, shame, and a thousand regrets still seeping out from that secret corner.