He knew what he had to do now, though. Which side he had to choose, and it was not between bickering Old Ones and Paladins divided. It was the side of the dark-giver. The girl who looked so much like She once had—and not by mere coincidence.

Stones in motion,

Tools cleft in two.

The wyrm fell to the daughter made of moonlight long ago,

He just did not know it yet.

Snow beat against Aeduan as he aimed for Corlant’s camp. Winds picked up speed, shifting from a charged breeze to icy gusts. They slanted against him, slowing his steps. Blasting snow into his vision.

Lightning cracked, and hail pelted down. The evergreens and winter hardwoods creaked. The ground began to shake. Soon, Corlant’s blood dominated all others. Wet caves and white-knuckled grips. Rusted locks and endless hunger.

Yet mingling within that scent was a second smell—a new smell that plowed into him so forcefully he slammed to a stop as if it were physical. Hail beat against him; snow blustered and flew. Yet all of his being, all of the Bloodwitch’s magic had shrunk down to that smell.

A sky singing with snow. Meadows drenched in moonlight. Sun and sand and auburn leaves falling.

It was Her scent. Corlant was draining Her—again—because that had always been Portia’s aim. The General and the true Six wanted to restore the goddess; Portia wanted to end her. No more Paladins, no more Sirmaya. Only Portia’s soul for all eternity.

How had he ever mistaken Corlant for Midne?

Aeduan ran faster, tapping into the deepest parts of his Bloodwitchery. Letting the first soul surge upward and claim control. There was no reason to fight now that they wanted the same thing.

The nearer he came to camp, the more scents crashed against him: fresh blood thick on the air, hundreds of scents to mash and mix. Sounds came too, carried on winds that flayed. Weapons and breaking stone, screams upon screams upon screams.

He smelled the shadow wyrm. Dark crevices and glowing ice. A lost child, forever pain. And above it all, brighter than any other blood, was Corlant. The hunger was larger than before. A scent to dominate, a need so powerful it had taken almost complete control. And already, the scent of Sirmaya was fading beneath it.

Aeduan reached the camp and took in the chaos. Purist, Nomatsi—some locked in combat. Most convulsing upon the snow as Corlant gorged on their magics and drained their souls. Snow still sliced down, hail still fell, and through the wild winds, Aeduan glimpsed no sign of the dark-giver.