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“Easy,” someone soothed. A slender woman with braided golden hair and calm eyes sat behind me—one of the Menders, her face gentle yet lined deeply by worry. Threads shimmered faintly around her fingertips as she reached toward me. A whisper of warmth eased the worst of the aches in my head.
“Is everyone. . .” I couldn't finish the thought. The words too fragile, too dangerous to speak aloud.
Her expression tightened, grief shadowing her eyes. “Most of us made it through. But Ysella stayed behind to hold the passage open, and Astrid and Abigail were cut off before they could reach it. All three were captured.”
Astrid, who'd taught me to braid defensive wards. Abigail, who always saved me a seat by the fire. Gone.
Captured. The word hit me like a physical blow. Ysella was in Elias's hands because I hadn't been strong enough, fast enough, better somehow.
“And Marigold?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
The woman's expression softened. “Safe. Frightened, but unharmed.”
At least that much had gone right.
“August,” I whispered, glancing around the tent's confines. “Where is he?”
“Outside, organizing our defenses and overseeing the wounded. Several were injured in the fight.” She sighed, a weary sound heavy with sorrow and resignation. “This camp is temporary—we are well hidden for now. Miles away from the cave and Hunters.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Roughly three hours.” She patted me on the knee. “But you need your rest.”
Three hours. I'd been unconscious for three hours while everyone else dealt with the aftermath of my failure.
I pushed aside the blankets, ignoring how my muscles trembled with the effort. The simple act of standing sent waves of dizziness through me, and I had to grip the tent pole for support. “I need to help.”
“Child, you've already given more than you can spare.” The Mender's expression softened even as her grip tightened on my arm. “Your threads are badly frayed. If you push further without proper rest, you risk complete unraveling.”
Unraveling. A chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air slipped down my spine. In my own time, the worst thing that could happen to you was death. Here, there were fates more terrible than that.
“Take me to them,” I insisted softly.
She hesitated, studying my face with the practiced eye of someone who'd seen too many Weavers push themselves past their limits. Then she nodded and held the tent flap open.
Cold night air rushed in, carrying the scent of pine, woodsmoke, and medicinal herbs. But underneath those familiar smells lurked something darker—the metallic tang of blood, the bite of fear, the weight of grief made manifest. She helped me step out of the tent.
The makeshift encampment nestled in a natural depression between towering pine trees, their thick canopy providing concealment. Cleverly placed barriers of fallen logs and stacked stones created defensive positions, while lookouts kept watch from elevated platforms built into the larger trees. It was more organized than any refugee camp I'd seen in documentaries, yet carried the same air of desperate impermanence.
Mending Weavers moved quietly through the camp, their golden threads shimmering like captured starlight as they worked to knit wounds and ease pain. The sight was beautiful and devastating—these people pouring out the last of their strength to care for one another, knowing tomorrow might bring discovery and death. Some knelt beside bedrolls, faces taut with concentration as they coaxed torn flesh back together stitch by stitch. Others drifted between the fires, their weaving purifying water, stretching meager food into something almost sustaining. Each movement spoke of long practice, of survival pressed into ritual. And the truth cut deep, sharp as a blade beneath my ribs: the quiet, stubborn endurance of a people who refused to vanish.
August stood near the center of the clearing, his bloodied coat discarded and sleeves rolled to his elbows as he spoke with a cluster of Weavers. Maps were spread across a makeshift table, marked with what looked like patrol routes and safe passages.
Watching him coordinate the defense of people he'd once been trained to kill stirred something complex in my chest. Days ago, I would never have imagined this scene—August Hawthorne, the Unraveler's son, planning the protection of Weavers with the same intensity he'd once brought to their destruction.
As though sensing the weight of my gaze, he turned abruptly. In three strides, he was before me, hands rising to cradle my face as if I might break. The last time we'd touched like this, we'd been in his kitchen, stealing a moment before the world fell apart. Now the world had fallen apart, and somehow we were both still standing.
“You should be resting.” His eyes—more green than usual—scanned over me, lingering too long, as if memorizing each line of me.
“So should you.” My eyes dropped to where he had been wounded. “You took a bullet.”
“You burned yourself out.” His thumb traced my cheekbone. “I'd say we're even.”
“Not even close,” I whispered, though my chest tightened around the lie. “But what about Ysella?” The name scraped past my lips, heavy with guilt, sharp as glass lodged beneath my ribs.
His jaw clenched. Pain cut through his expression—pain not just for Ysella, but for me. “We’ll get her back. My father won’t execute her immediately. His methods are. . .” His expression shuttered, going distant. “Cruel. Methodical. He’ll try to break her first, strip her for information. That buys us time.”
The way he said my father—with the same contempt he'd once reserved for Weavers—reminded me how completely he'd turned. This wasn't August Hawthorne, son of the Unraveler. This was someone new. Someone better.
