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“How much time? She sacrificed herself for me—for all of us.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hands shifted, his thumbs brushing along my cheekbones in a slow, grounding stroke that made my pulse riot. When he finally spoke, I caught the faint tremor in his fingers, the exhaustion shadowing his eyes.

“Enough,” he said, firm, unyielding. “I know his patterns. I know his cages. We’ll reach her before he does permanent harm.”

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Then his gaze dropped to my mouth before flicking back up to hold mine, something fierce sparking there. “Helping these people. . .” He stepped closer, close enough that only I could hear. “People I was raised to hunt. . . It isn’t what I expected. But I’ll burn this world before I let them down.”

The vow vibrated between us. My hand found his, fingers tangling, and though pain lanced through my depleted reserves, I couldn’t release him. The contact was too much, too dangerous, yet not enough. His grip tightened, anchoring me. Inside, I was fraying, breaking apart—but he held me together.

When he looked at me, I saw more than concern—I saw grief. Raw and fresh. He'd killed one of his own men tonight. A boy he'd trained. I wanted to ask if he was alright, but the words stuck in my throat. How do you ask someone if they're okay after they've had to kill a friend?

Around us, Menders moved silently, their golden threads weaving through the air like fragile strands of hope, illuminating the shadows we stood in. But I couldn’t look away from him. August Hawthorne—the man raised to be my enemy, who now held me as if I were the only reason he still breathed.

Then I saw Syra. Her braid hung disheveled, eyes red-rimmed with grief. She stood rigid near the perimeter, trembling with an emotion so sharp it looked like rage.

“She got us out,” Syra said when she noticed my approach, staring at nothing. “Looked right at me before she turned back. Smiled. Like she was saying goodbye.”

I stepped forward, my legs still unsteady. “Because she was.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn't move. “She should've run. I told her to. I begged her to come with us. She handed me the youngest ones and turned back toward the forest. I thought she'd follow once they were safe. I thought. . .” Tears spilled over, and I saw the exact moment when hope died in her eyes. “I shouldn't have let her make that choice.”

A tremor worked its way up my spine—not from magical exhaustion this time, but from recognition. “She didn't give you the option to decide. She chose. She knew exactly what she was doing.”

“But what if that choice gets her unraveled?” Syra's composure shattered then, her fingers digging into my arms. “Do you understand what that means? Not just death—complete erasure. Her threads cut from the weave entirely. No memory, no trace that she ever existed.”

The words sent ice through my veins. In my time, we feared death, but this. . . this was obliteration. To be erased so completely that even the universe forgot you had existed.

I reached out, gently taking her hands. “She didn't turn back to die. She turned back to buy us time, to give us a chance to fight. She believed in us—in what we could accomplish. And we're not going to let her sacrifice be meaningless.”

Over her shoulder, I caught August's eye. His expression mirrored my resolve, tempered by sorrow but fueled by fierce determination. Strange how easily we'd learned to communicate without words.

Syra's jaw clenched, tears finally spilling over. “Then we fight like hell.”

“I promise,” I said, meaning it with every fiber of my being. “For her. For all of us.”

Around us, the camp murmured in quiet agreement, the soft glow of golden threads illuminating weary but determined faces. And though darkness pressed heavily against the edges of our sanctuary, we stood ready to face whatever came next—bound not just by grief, but by hope.

CHAPTER 42

AUGUST

The tent was impossibly small with both of us inside. Canvas walls pressed close, a thin barrier between us and the mountain winds. Somewhere in the pines, an owl called, and the faint muffle of voices from the other Weavers' tents carried on the wind—but here, in this pocket of warmth, the world had narrowed too only her.

Lily had already settled onto her bedroll, though tension coiled in her shoulders, holding herself upright against the pull of exhaustion. Two bedrolls lay side by side, a handspan of space between them.

I lingered by the opening, tugging my boots off with unnecessary force, replaying the night in endless loops—Ysella’s capture, Hayes’s death, the blood and the fire. But above it all, louder than grief, louder than fear, was the thought that I had almost lost her.

“You don’t have to hover. I’m not going to break.”

I froze, one boot in hand. “I know you won’t break,” I said. “But you nearly unraveled yourself tonight. That’s not something to dismiss.”

She turned toward me, that stubborn line to her jaw I’d once hated—and now found impossible not to admire. “I did what I had to do. Just like Ysella.”

“And look where that left her.” The words came out sharper than intended, and the flicker of hurt in her eyes gutted me.

“That’s not fair,” she whispered.

I dragged a hand over my face, the bruises and aches of the night settling heavy in my bones. “No. It’s not. Forgive me.” I forced myself to meet her gaze, to see her pale skin, the faint tremor of her hands—not from cold, but from magic drained too far. “I don't know what I would have done if they'd taken you. You have become. . . essential to me, Lily. And if I'd lost you⁠—”