Her face warmed. Her tongue fattened. She offered her hand again. “M-Mother.” She swallowed. “You told me yesterday that … magic was what we made of it. Esme is not the m-monster she used to be, and…” Another swallow. Then she let the full breadth of her desperation reach her face. Her nose twitched, her brow pinched tight, and the stutter broke completely free. “I-I … I am not either.”

And with those words—with that stammer, embraced and unbound—her mother’s face relaxed. Her eyes abandoned Esme’s and found Iseult’s instead. No sharp words about Threadwitches controlling their tongues nor stony silence with lips compressed in withdrawn disapproval.

Instead, she looked sad. So, so sad that Iseult almost imagined grieving blue Threads wisped over her like a crown.

“Go,” Gretchya said softly. “Do what you must to fix this, Iseult, and I will lead the Purists away.”

Iseult blinked. She was so stunned by the heartbreak on her mother’s face, by the gentleness in her tone, that it took her a moment to actually comprehend Gretchya’s words.

“No, Mother, that isn’t what I meant—”

“Do it.” Gretchya’s nose wrinkled; authority hardened her eyes. “Corlant will not kill me—even now. And I will gain you the time you need.”

“No.” Iseult thrust out her bandaged hand again. Purists were so near, she could see their cloaked shapes within the trees. “I don’t care if he won’t hurt you, Mother. I won’t risk anyone—”

“Go.” Gretchya lunged at Iseult and shoved. Strong enough to launch her back three steps.

Strong enough to push her into the Solfatarra’s grasp. Acid flamed in. No sight, no breath, no touch. Only the sound of her mother whispering, “You were always meant for bigger things than I could give.”

Then Gretchya roared at the top of her lungs and her footsteps stomped away, aiming once more toward camp.

Gravity and winds punched in. The forest below zoomed to eye level. White fog too, until that was all Safi could see—white, white, endless white.

She was falling. Dangling like a marionette with only desperate muscles keeping her attached to the Eridysi’s railing.

Safi’s muscles shrieked and stretched. Her vision crossed and blurred. Even with the goggles, her eyes streamed. Distantly, she felt acid sear her skin, and distantly, she glimpsed scarlet uniforms streaking through the sky.

Instinct told her to squeeze her eyes shut; self-preservation kept them open. The Eridysi was going to crash into the Solfatarra. Acid and heat would boil Safi alive—and there was nothing she could do about it except watch death zoom closer.

Then a jolt battered through her. The Eridysi changed course, pitched a different way. Someone screamed; it might have been her.

Safi clung more frantically to the balustrade. As tightly as her arms would allow, though gravity clawed.