He cursed that he couldn’t smell her blood. The mother, first Aeduan nudged. Find the mother. So the Old One did, seeking out the lavender and lullabies, the cold earth and colder gemstones. He found her at the center of the fray, and he set off across the madness of a battle dominated by one.

He had to lean against storm winds, he had to squint and strain against ice and snow. The closer he came to Corlant, the wilder the blizzard. The more lightning cracked and sizzled. He did not stop, though, for each step brought Gretchya’s scent closer.

And it also brought glimmers of Sirmaya again. A warmth to fight toward. A calm he missed more with every tilted step he claimed.

Until at last, he’d reached the eye of Corlant’s storm, and there was the man himself. The Paladin, the Exalted One he had feared so deeply a thousand years ago—and still feared. He could not help it. Sirmaya’s smile might live forever in his heart, but Portia’s laugh lived forever in his skull.

Corlant made that laugh now as Aeduan finally mangled free from the storm. A hurricane of white raged around them—and around Gretchya too, who knelt beside a fresh corpse that smelled of missed smiles and aching regret, of humid swamps and a child’s laugh.

For some reason, the first Aeduan mourned that blood-scent and the life that had been attached.

“You are just in time,” Corlant called, and with another laugh, he lifted from the ground. Snow gusted away from his feet. His robe billowed, and his bandage slid downward, revealing an empty socket. A fresh wound, savage and deep, had claimed the other eye. Yet somehow, Corlant could see. Somehow, he only looked more powerful, more dangerous.

“Keep my Heart-Thread safe,” Corlant ordered, flying higher. High enough that Aeduan should not have been able to hear him. “And if she tries to leave, maim her.”

Then, with the power of stolen magic, he launched away—and where he flew, his storm flew too. Suddenly winds and snow blasted into Aeduan again. He dove for the Threadwitch, who hunched over her dead apprentice.

Even in the whiteout, he could not miss the streaks of blood or the scent of a girl dead too soon. Gone was Sirmaya, though. The autumn leaves and moonlit meadows had trickled away with Corlant’s storm.

“Stay back,” Gretchya shrieked at Aeduan. She thrust up a blade. “I will kill myself if you come near, and I can promise you, Corlant would not like that.”

Aeduan lifted his hands. He could not possibly convince her that he was on her side. She had no reason to believe him, and he had no way to prove. All he could do was nod at her and remain staked in place. “Where is Iseult?” he shouted.