Page 135
Behind us, I could hear my former men shouting in confusion and rage. The brilliant passage blazed too intensely for their eyes to follow. Their bullets struck harmlessly against barriers they couldn't comprehend.
Morrison's shouts echoed through the fading tunnel. “After them! Don't let the traitor escape!”
But even as he shouted, the magical passage collapsed behind us, golden threads unraveling into nothing. The entrance sealed, leaving only forest where the miracle had been.
But it was too late for pursuit.
A heartbeat later, the forest vanished entirely, replaced by the star-scattered silence of an immense ravine where ancient stones rose like sleeping giants toward the night sky. A handful of Weavers waited for us in the shadows, their faces pale and tense with worry.
A grey-haired woman with braids stepped toward us, her eyes ancient and wise beyond reckoning. Without a word, she pressed gentle fingers to Lily's temple. Golden motes shimmered briefly beneath her touch before dissolving like embers into ash.
“She has spent more than she possessed,” the elder Weaver murmured, her brow creased with worry. “To raise such a ward. The cost is severe, and the debt will demand payment.”
I sank to my knees, my shoulder screaming in protest, Hayes's blood still tacky on my coat. “Will she survive?”
My hands trembled as I tightened my grip around Lily, feeling her heartbeat flutter beneath my fingertips.
The old Weaver's eyes met mine, unflinching yet compassionate. “She has burned threads from her own tapestry—the fabric of her being. They will heal, but slowly, and scars will remain forever.” Her gaze dropped back to Lily. “The Weave does not grant miracles without exacting a price, but she will live.”
I bowed my head, relief washing through me alongside fear of what her sacrifice meant, what burdens she would now carry. But for now, she breathed. She lived.
The old woman straightened, her expression growing grave. “Where is Ysella?”
I looked behind me, but the shimmering passage had already faded. The older woman—Ysella—was not there. “She was behind me. . . I thought she was following.”
The elder Weaver's face paled, deepening the lines etched by age. “Ysella knew exactly what she was doing when she created that passage. She remained behind deliberately—to give you all a chance to escape.”
A murmur of alarm spread among the gathered Weavers, whispers growing sharp-edged with fear and grief. They glanced toward where the magical pathway had been, understanding the implications immediately.
“We cannot simply abandon her,” I argued, even though I knew she spoke the truth. “They'll execute her.”
“Not immediately,” the elder said softly, profound sadness filling her ancient eyes. “Your father will want her alive first. She knows too much—our locations, our numbers, our capabilities. She's too valuable for a quick death. But her capture will come at a terrible cost to all of us.”
Lily stirred softly in my arms, murmuring incoherently, oblivious to the terrible bargain that had just been struck for her life—and for all of ours.
The elder Weaver touched Lily's forehead again, checking some invisible thread that only she could perceive. “Ysella's sacrifice will not be meaningless. But we must move swiftly, our location will soon be compromised.”
I stared back toward the dark forest, knowing that Ysella was now in the hands of hunters I had trained myself—men who would extract the truth from her using methods I had helped perfect.
But resolve hardened within me, forged from grief and guilt alike. “We'll get her back. Whatever the cost.”
The elder Weaver nodded solemnly. “Then steel your heart, August Hawthorne. For the price of saving Ysella will be steep indeed.”
I could live with being someone my mother would have been proud of. Even if it meant dying for it.
CHAPTER 41
LILY
Iwoke to muted voices, the soft murmur of conversation filtering through heavy canvas. A tent. Warm lantern-light flickered across the ceiling, casting wavering shadows. For a disoriented moment, I couldn't recall where I was—only that my body was wrong, as though someone had pulled all the strings from a marionette and left it crumpled on the floor.
My chest ached with a hollow emptiness, as though something vital had been carved out of me and left to rot. The threads of my magic—once a steady warmth beneath my skin—were frayed, brittle. When I reached for them, pain lanced through my skull like lightning splitting a tree.
Slowly, memory returned. The ball. The Unraveler. Marigold, August, the Hunters—
Hunters.
I sat upright, heart jolting painfully. My head spun at the sudden movement, nausea rising as those damaged magical threads protested the abrupt motion. The world tilted sickeningly before settling again.
