It had never been so easy. All Iseult had to do was flick her hand toward a soldier, toward a Hell-Bard, and their Threads twined into her body. She didn’t have to hold on; their souls didn’t scorch or scream. She simply gestured and the world obeyed.

And part of her laughed at that. Finally, she and Safi were completing their plan—completing Eron’s plan. Finally, they were eliminating Henrick and taking control of Hell-Bards who didn’t deserve their eternal pain.

More soldiers advanced from the north, but as soon as they hit Iseult’s magical range, she claimed them. Like plucking berries off a tree, she added them one by one. When Iseult said, “Stay,” to the Cartorrans, the Cartorrans stayed. And when she told a nearby woman, “Give me your sword,” the woman did exactly that, unfastening it from her belt and handing it off with blank eyes.

So it was that no one followed Safi or Henrick, and no one advanced on Iseult or Caden. No one but Corlant. His storm still came, building by the second. But Iseult wasn’t afraid of him. He had power vast and stolen, but in the end, he was only a Paladin. She was the Cahr Awen. So many dark-givers now pumped through Iseult. Vibrant, sparkling, elated to be set free. They wouldn’t last forever, but they would take her far.

With the sword fastened at her hip, Iseult returned to the tower, to Caden hunched within the shadows. The wind now reached him, the snow now pelted. He had stopped shivering and lay limp.

He did not have much time left.

Iseult sank to her knees beside the Hell-Bard. Snow soaked her pants, spreading Alma’s blood anew. “I will send a Hell-Bard to find a healer,” Iseult said, hoping she radiated the same calm Gretchya always wore. “Surely, there’s someone to tend your wounds.”

But Caden only shook his head. One eye cracked open. “Only the Hell-Bard Loom can heal me.”

“I can access the Loom if you tell me what to do.”

Again, he wagged his head. “It … doesn’t work that way.” His eyelids fell shut, though he beckoned her near.

So Iseult leaned in, and his breath, weak and frozen, reached her ear. “We … are not your tools.” His chest shuddered; his body slouched; his leg gave an oozing spurt. Unconsciousness claimed his Threads.

And Iseult swallowed, tongue suddenly fat. Hot guilt suddenly rising. “It is … not forever,” she told his limp form. “It is o-only to keep us safe.” Her argument sounded flimsy, though, even to her own ears.

It was as she pushed back to her feet that the storm faded. The snow paused, the thunder silenced, and the winds whimpered into a false calm. The eye of the storm had arrived. Corlant was here.