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“You might have succeeded.” Father's hand struck the desk hard enough to make the ink bottles rattle. “Or you might have captured one. Brought them back for questioning. Instead, you allowed them to slip away.”

Garrick's hand moved to his weapon before he caught himself. I shot him a warning glance, but Father had already noticed.

“Something to say, Wolfe?”

“No, sir,” Garrick said, but his jaw was tight enough to crack.

Father closed the journal with a snap sharp enough to echo. “I told you what would happen should you fail.”

My blood turned to ice. “Sir⁠—”

“I made myself perfectly clear before you left.” Father's eyes swept over both of us. “Failure has consequences. And someone must pay the price.”

“Then let it be me.” The words left my mouth before I could stop them. “I led the hunt. The responsibility is mine. I’m the Captain.”

“August—” Garrick started, but I cut him off.

“Morrison's shoulder is dislocated because I didn't anticipate the ambush. Ashby is bleeding because I didn’t push forward when I should have. If anyone deserves punishment, it's me.”

Father studied me for a long moment. Something flickered across his face. Pride, perhaps, or satisfaction. But it vanished too quickly to name.

“No,” he said finally. “You're too valuable to waste on a lesson. But your willingness to accept responsibility is noted.”

The relief was short-lived.

“Ashby will do.” Father spoke as casually as if discussing dinner plans. “He's young. Expendable. That blade wound came from weakness. From fear.”

“He's nineteen,” Garrick said, jaw clenched. “Barely trained.”

“Old enough to know better.” Father moved toward the door. “Bring him to me at sunset. I shall handle the rest.”

“Sir—” I tried again, but he held up one hand.

“The matter is settled, August. Unless you'd prefer to take his place after all?”

The trap closed around me. Challenge him now, and Ashby dies regardless. Along with my credibility. Accept it, and live with the knowledge that I'd sent a boy to his death through my failure.

“No, sir,” I managed.

“Good. You're dismissed.”

We left in silence, Garrick's fury radiating off him in waves. He waited until we were three corridors away before he spoke.

“We're not doing this.”

“We haven't a choice⁠—”

“There is always a choice!” He rounded on me, eyes blazing. “Ashby is a boy, August. Barely knows which end of a sword to hold. And your father wants to unmake him because we couldn't catch a group of Weavers who had the advantage of terrain and numbers?”

“Keep your voice down.” I glanced around, but the hallway was empty. “What would you have me do? Defy him? He'll simply choose someone else.”

“So we do nothing?” Garrick's laugh was bitter. “Just allow him to tear apart a nineteen-year-old boy because we failed to meet his impossible standards?”

I didn't have an answer. Couldn't find one in the churning mess of anger and guilt and exhaustion weighing me down.

“There might be another way,” I said slowly.

“What way?”