Evrane’s frown deepened to a sneer. “Still you are the weakest.” She stomped her boots. Two blades sliced free at the toes. Then she leaped at Aeduan.

He swept sideways. Her blade sang past his ears—fast enough to carve him in two. But not fast enough to beat his Bloodwitchery. He shot up the log in a single leap, legs scissoring as he passed her. His foot hit her spine. She stumbled forward, hitting the snow on one knee, toe blade dragging.

He could have ended her then. But he didn’t, and that truth made her scream as she thrust back to her feet. “Fight me.” She brandished her blade. “Quit being a coward and fight me.” She charged, sword swiping.

Aeduan skipped backward again. Once, twice. Each attack he avoided, and each moment for retaliation he let slip by. “We are not enemies.”

“We are since you betrayed us.”

“Portia is the enemy.”

“He is not Portia.”

“Of course he is.”

A strangled snarl. More arcs of silver steel. More snow to settle on her hair and shining cloak. Aeduan had thought Evrane Moon Mother when she had saved him as a boy. The first Aeduan, that was.

Ah, the Old One thought. There you are to join me.

I never left, Aeduan replied, and the Old One found himself smiling.

“Stop that,” Evrane barked, following Aeduan over roots and into the trees. “Stop smiling and fight me.”

“Why?” He bounded around a hemlock and opened his empty hands, briefly whirling about to face her.

She lashed out with her sword, aiming for his calves. But he easily slipped behind her and grabbed her in a choke hold.

“You can still change your mind, Evrane. Now that you know he is not truly Midne.”

“It changes … nothing,” she forced out. “So what if Corlant is an Exalted One? We are too, in case you have forgotten.”

“I have not.” He squeezed his forearm against her throat. “And I no longer like what I remember.”

She dropped her sword. It thumped, a sound muffled by snow.

“Why do you want to die?” he asked. She was so sturdy against him, her browned Nubrevnan skin a sharp contrast to his half-Nomatsi pallor. “You know that if I truly fight you, you will not win.”

She did not answer right away, though she could have. Blood might drain from her brain, but her lungs and throat, tongue and mouth still functioned. He felt them shivering like she had words she wanted to say. Then at last: “I see … why everyone loves the dark-giver.” Her neck wobbled against his forearm. “She looks like Her when She came out of the Sleeping Lands. I never loved Her, though. Not like everyone else did, so I do not want to bring Her back. I do not want our power to end or to be weak like you.”