Satisfied the child was safe, she strode into the woods. Massive conifers, their trunks large as towers, blocked all sunlight, leaving only a sandy needle carpet to trek across. Some bushes and saplings had taken root, but most of the ground was easy and clear.

Iseult must’ve truly won the favor of her mysterious god. Never had she had so much luck.

Soon, she heard the gentle lapping of the river again. Closer than expected—and welcome. If the river bent this sharply this soon, then the horses could simply carve around with it and continue on. No need for a crossing.

Each step made Iseult’s heart rise a bit higher. Made her pace quicken and bounce. She couldn’t explain how she knew, yet somehow, she knew once she saw the river, she would be happy. It was as if …

As if the Threads that bind were pulling her onward. As if someone she cared about was waiting just ahead.

But that was impossible. Of course it was impossible. Who could be here in the middle of a mountain range? Yet Iseult’s body did not seem to care. She wanted to move faster. She wanted to run.

So she did—a three-beat rhythm of feet and staff upon the sand. The river was so close; she had to see it, she had to know.

When she was almost to the forest’s edge, she glimpsed the water. The sun beat off its surface, glaring and true, while on the river’s opposite side stood a figure in white.

It can’t be, she thought even as she knew it was. He was who her body had been running to. He was who her Threads had reeled her toward.

She cleared the forest, her feet now sprinting, breaths now shallow, and heart caught somewhere in her mouth. Because he was here. The Bloodwitch named Aeduan was here, standing on the other side of the river.

That white cloak, that pale face and sharp jawline. Iseult would know him anywhere. Her Threads would know his anywhere. Mhe varujta. Te varuje.

Eleven Days After the Earth Well Healed

It is the room where Hell-Bards are made. Safi cannot believe Henrick is showing it to her. At first, she thought it was a warning. Now, she thinks it merely a point of pride—and as disturbing as it is, she cannot deny she understands.

The room is beautiful. Square, marble, with four pillars to support a high, domed ceiling. There is something ancient about it, as if she has stepped into another time. The floors, marble tiles with gold-inlaid eagles, are worn but meticulously maintained. The ceiling, streaked in more gold, teases and taunts like fish fins in a pond.

It is the walls, though, that draw the focus. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of gold chains dangle on invisible hooks. They are still, silent, yet they echo footsteps and voices in a way that makes them seem alive.