His Threads descended behind Iseult, twining lazily toward the tower as their owner eased from the sky. Purple hunger, amaranth laughter, and the eternally spinning silver.

The hairs on Iseult’s skin pricked high. Her spine tingled and crawled, but she took her time prying Esme off her neck and easing her to the snow. She took her time removing her cloak and draping it over Caden’s body. Little protection against the cold, but better than nothing.

And she no longer needed it. Not with freed souls to keep her warm. And not when she wore Threadwitch black that she wanted Corlant to see.

He landed in the tower, a soft brush of winds to flip at her hair. His storm pummeled and spun outside, but not here. Not inside these ancient walls.

Iseult turned to face him. Father, my father.

He had pulled the knife from his eye, leaving a bloodied abyss still leaking, the hole from his first eye was no longer bandaged, but exposed and crusted yellow with pus. Shadows twisted off him and frost hissed.

Iseult lifted her new sword at him. “I have a weapon. Come no closer.”

“Oh, I can see that.” He smiled. “Though not in this world. I see you in the Dreaming with perfect clarity.” He opened his arms. “A clever spot you chose, my daughter. It used to be mine, you know. So very, very long ago.”

He advanced a step, smooth as a snake over water or a wyrm over snow. “I see your sword, and your Hell-Bards too. And all the little souls you sapped from the Threadstone.”

Iseult held her stance. “I will kill you.”

His hurricane of Threads gleamed with delight. “Your own father?”

“I am the only one who can.”

The amusement creaked brighter. His eyebrows leaped, squeezing fresh blood from his eye. “So you figured that out, did you? Clever, though ultimately useless in the end.” He flipped up his arms, robe falling back to reveal skeletal limbs oozing shadows.

Ice lanced out from his feet, hardening the snow and shooting toward Iseult. She dove sideways, where a stone crunched up to block her way. Another dive and she was at the exit. She didn’t flee, though. Not this time.

She rounded back and launched full speed at Corlant. He flung more ice at her, then flames, but she could see each attack coming. His Threads—his stolen, engorged Threads—gave him away. A flare of green meant stones barraging. A burst of yellow meant winds to slay. Red pulses meant flames, and the sudden shadows meant he grappled to claim her Threads.

He wanted to drain her as he’d drained so many others and as he’d tried to do to Alma, though she’d been too strong to relent and too good. Not an enemy for Iseult to envy, but a goal to aspire toward.

And a girl she still had to save.