Page 142

He pulled back, wiping a tear from my cheek. “What happened? You just. . . Christ, you sank like something had claimed you.”

The raw anguish in his voice nearly undid me. I coughed up more water, my mind still reeling from visions that was more real than the present moment. “The pendant,” I gasped, my fingers finding the chain at his throat. “August, it's not just a keepsake. It's a focusing stone.”

His hand covered mine instantly, and I could see the realization dawning in his eyes—not just that his mother had been a Weaver, but that he'd been carrying a piece of her power against his heart all these years. A legacy written in gold and magic and hope.

“That's impossible,” he said, but his hand went to the pendant at his chest, fingers trembling.

“She left it for a reason,” I said, struggling to catch my breath, to make sense of visions that defied understanding. “For you to find it. For me to find it in my time. For it to awaken when touched by magic again.” I gripped his shoulders, feeling the way he trembled against me. “August, I saw her. Ysella. She's alive, and she's not just surviving—she's building something. A resistance. From inside the prison.”

His arms tightened around me instinctively, his earlier doubts about magic forgotten in the face of my distress and this earth-shattering revelation. “Are you hurt?”

The possessiveness in his words sent heat spiraling through my chest despite everything. “I'm not hurt,” I assured him, though my hands were shaking like leaves in a storm. “Just shaken. I've never experienced anything like that before—visions so vivid, so real.”

“Neither have I,” he said grimly, his thumb tracing the pendant that had changed everything between us. “This thing—it's never done anything like that. It's just been. . . a memory. A connection to someone I thought was gone forever.”

We stood there in the shallows, both of us breathing hard, the weight of discovery settling between us. August's arms remained locked around me, protective and possessive, his philosophical struggles with magic replaced by something far more primal—the need to shield what was his from forces beyond his understanding.

“The vision,” I whispered, pressing closer to his warmth. “The last part was unclear, but I heard a single word: 'Bridge.' I think. . . I think it means something. It seemed important. Like a title. Like a purpose.”

“We should return to camp,” he said finally. “The others should know about this—about what the pendant can do, about your vision.”

I nodded, though I made no immediate move to step away from his embrace. The intimacy of the moment—his hands on my skin, the way he'd unhesitatingly dove into the magic-touched water to save me, the vulnerability we'd both shown—was too sacred to break.

“August,” I said softly, looking up into eyes that held storms and starlight in equal measure. “Thank you. For trusting me enough to try, even when it went against everything you've been taught.”

His expression grew tender in a way that made my knees weak. “Thank you for showing me there might be more to this world than my father's version of it.” He cupped my face with both hands, his touch achingly gentle. “I don't know what happens next. I don't know if I can unlearn twenty-two years in a single morning. But I know I cannot lose you. Won't lose you. Not to the Weave, not to my father, not to anything in this godforsaken world.”

The words hung between us like an oath, heavy with promise and possibility. When he helped me from the water, his touch remained careful and reverent despite the heat that still burned in his eyes—as if I were something infinitely precious that had almost been lost to him forever.

As we prepared to return to camp, I caught August looking at the pendant with new eyes, his expression a mixture of wonder and wariness. The easy acceptance I'd hoped for hadn't come, but perhaps that was for the best. Real change, lasting change, took time.

And despite the interrupted vision and all the questions that remained unanswered, we had taken a step that could never be undone. He had seen magic's beauty and its danger. He had chosen to trust me over a lifetime of conditioning.

Most importantly, when something had tried to drag me into the dark, he hadn't hesitated to follow.

Whatever the pendant had tried to show me about bridges and rebellions would have to wait. For now, it was enough that August looked at me like I was worth fighting for. Like I was someone he believed in. That I was worth saving.

It was more than a beginning.

It was everything.

CHAPTER 44

LILY

We returned to camp. The silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was charged, trembling with everything we weren’t saying. Each glance was a memory. Each breath, a tether.

Mira spotted us first. Her brows lifted, eyes flicking between our bodies and the subtle way our hands brushed as we passed. She didn’t say a word, but something in her gaze softened.

We peeled off in different directions. August moved toward where the wounded Weavers were being tended. I sought out Syra, heart still pounding from what I’d seen beneath the water.

She was hunched over a map near the edge of camp, speaking with another elder. Her sharp eyes met mine before I reached her.

“I need to speak with you,” I said.

She waved the other Weaver off.

I didn’t waste time. “I saw Ysella. She’s alive. But—she’s building something. A resistance.”