It was the first time she’d addressed him by his given name. The first time she hadn’t called him by his title, and he tensed at the sound of it. Then something almost like grief crossed his eyes.

She’d seen that look before, in his study when she’d called him poison.

Two heartbeats passed; the snow briefly lightened. Then Henrick sighed. “I am sorry,” he said, and he brushed softly at the chain glistening upon his belt.

Blades swiped free, a great clash of noise from outside the tower. Loud enough to sing above the blizzard winds, near enough to flash glimmers of movement through cracks in the ruined tower.

Safi lifted her hands. Cleaved lines crawled over them now, blending into her Witchmark. Warning of a doom so near. But that didn’t make her fists any less effective, thanks to the family who had trained her. The family she would fight for until the end.

“I will not go easily,” she told him honestly.

“And,” began a new voice, cutting through the snow as sharp as a north wind, “she will not go alone.” Then Iseult moved into position beside Safi. No more smoke around her, no more ice. Awake and glowing in this tower surrounded by storm.

Initiate, complete.

The Old One had never fought in a storm before—had never fought without sight to guide him. The first Bloodwitch, however, knew exactly what to do as Purists closed in on Gretchya.

There was memory in his muscles if he was willing to listen and let them move free.

A woman with sallow skin loose upon her bones charged Gretchya with a hatchet. A young man with a black beard lunged in with two blades. Behind them, more bodies—mindless husks—coalesced within the snow. Aeduan knew not why they attacked their master’s Heart-Thread. It was as if they were cleaved, no longer in control of their minds. He could only guess that the storm and Sirmaya’s sapped power had driven them to this chaotic thirst for blood.

Aeduan dealt with all of them. He ducked, he spun, he grabbed arms and levered bodies. He kicked at any knees near enough to reach and hammer-fisted at noses or throats or ears. Duck, spin, lever, kick. Elbows, feet, knees, and flat-palmed hands. His body moved in a blur of magic-fueled speed through an unnatural storm that chomped with ice teeth.

One by one the Purists fell, yet not a one of them died.

Distantly, as bodies poured in with the snow and sleet and winds, and as Aeduan’s muscles moved with a forgotten harmony, he noticed that each defense the first Bloodwitch called on was only meant to disable. Each attack was only meant to gain time.

The first Bloodwitch was merciful. He had a power to dominate men, yet he’d never used it that way.