She turned to Safi, who crouched beside Caden trying to get the Hell-Bard into a more comfortable position. The gash in his leg glistened; his pale skin did too. It was the sort of wound that would kill slowly, festering and seeping and plucking away at life bit by bit—assuming the snow didn’t get him first.

His Threads verged on unconsciousness, though red dwelled there too. Yet from frustration at his weakness or frustration with the situation, Iseult couldn’t gauge. And Safi’s Threads held their own mystery: a beige worry Iseult didn’t recognize. A faint horror she’d never seen her Threadsister wear before.

One she prayed was not aimed at her.

But there was no time to worry about Threads or winter’s breath, just as there was no time to listen to the voices gathering in her brain: two Windwitches, freshly dead. Freshly trapped inside her veins. No time to worry over Gretchya either, dependent on Corlant’s obsession to keep her alive, and no time to dwell on Alma, cloaked in blood and dead upon the snow. There was only moving forward. Only following what had to be done so Iseult could finally, finally make things right.

“The Threadstones,” she said, crossing the small space to Safi. “I need the Threadstones.”

Safi blinked up, clearly startled by the request—though she didn’t argue and didn’t question. She simply plucked them from a pocket and dropped them onto Iseult’s bandaged palms.

Two drops of pressure. Two sparks of pain. Iseult swallowed at the sight of them, a hunger opening wide inside her belly. The rubies seemed to glow, dim light bouncing off them. An eternal flame, eternal sunshine. The bright half of the Cahr Awen to Iseult’s eternal frost and midnight.

But then she caught sight of Safi’s wrist. “You’re cleaving.” She grabbed for her Threadsister with her other hand, clumsy and aching.

Safi withdrew. “It’s fine.”

“It isn’t fine.”

“I’m not cleaving. It’s the Hell-Bard’s doom.”

“Same thing. You’ll die if those lines keep spreading, Safi. Show me your neck. Has it reached your chest?” She pawed again for Safi.

Again, Safi retreated. “Iseult, there’s no time. I made it this far without the doom claiming me. I’ll make it the rest of the way.”

And how far is that? Iseult wanted to demand, but logic held her tongue. Safi was right; like everything else, the doom would have to wait.

“I must enter the Dreaming,” she said. “The place I told you about, where I first saw Esme. It’s the only way I can stop what’s coming. But I’ll be exposed when I do. I know you can’t protect us from a hundred soldiers or Corlant’s storm, but—”

“Oh?” Safi interrupted, eyebrows bouncing. “I’m offended you would doubt me, Iz.”