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Syra blinked once, but the rest of her face held firm. “Go on.”

“The threads were showing me things. The last image vanished before I was able to get a clear picture. A bridge was the last thing I received. I don’t know what it means.”

Syra frowned, her fingers tracing patterns on the map as she considered. “A bridge. . .” She shook her head slowly. “The threads don't always speak clearly. It could mean many things—a literal bridge, a connection between forces, a person who spans two worlds. Perhaps it's time we build a bridge between the Weavers and those that have no magic. But I'm only guessing. Visions are tricky things, and yours seem particularly. . . complex.”

The uncertainty sparked frustration, but I pushed it aside. At least it was something.

“Threads don't just show you what is,” she continued. “They begin to shape what will be. If Ysella is working from the inside to contact Weavers, we need to work on the outside to find people in Oxford that will fight with us, not against us.”

The Weavers circled the dim glow of firelight. August and I sat next to each other. It was hard to believe that a Hunter, especially August Hawthorne, was here communing with Weavers.

“They’ll do it in public,” one of the elders said. “Public Unravelings keep the fear sharp.”

“She has less than a week,” Mira whispered. “If that.”

I leaned forward. “Then we don’t wait. We go in. She was weaving hope from the walls of a prison. We cannot let her light go out while we hide in the trees.”

August stepped forward, silencing the murmurs. “I’ll lead the infiltration. I know the layout. I know how to get in and out.”

The others bristled. Arguments sparked.

“We need to show Oxford the Weavers are nothing to fear,” Syra said at last. “August knows the Iron Spire. He will lead our infiltration. Can you get a message to Adeline for us?”

“I will do anything you need,” August replied.

“If she can gather our sympathizers, have them start seeding doubt about the Unraveler, it may be what we need to push this in our favor.”

“I will go with August,” I said.

“No,” Syra snapped. “You’re too valuable and too unstable at the moment.”

“I’m also the only one who can pull someone back from being Unraveled. We can’t risk losing more Weavers.”

No one replied. The silence was a kind of surrender.

The meeting dissolved into smaller groups making detailed plans, but I couldn't focus. My thoughts scattered in too many directions. Too much had changed in such a short time. The vision, August's transformation, my own shifting sense of self—it all swirled together like threads tangled beyond repair.

That night, I tried again. Beneath the veil of moonlight and birch, I called the threads.

They answered. Twitching. Wild. Unstable.

I shaped a small weave—a knot of light—and it burst apart like broken glass. My hands trembled. My chest ached with pressure I couldn’t release.

“You’re pushing too hard,” Marigold said softly behind me.

“I don’t have time to ease into this,” I said. “Not with Ysella’s life at stake.”

She stepped closer, placing a hand on my arm. “She wouldn’t want you to unravel for her.”

I didn’t respond. Because some part of me already was. I was no longer Lily Whitmore, historian. Sure, that was a part of me still but in nine days my whole life had been turned inside out. Magic now flowed through me, and I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to go back to just reading about history. Experiencing it firsthand had become so much more.

Marigold squeezed my arm gently before leaving me to my struggles. I stayed in the moonlight a few minutes longer, trying to find some center, some calm in the storm of change. But the threads remained chaotic, reflecting my inner turmoil, and eventually I gave up.

As I walked back toward the heart of camp, I spotted August sitting alone on a felled tree. His hand wrapped around the pendant at his chest. His fingers moved restlessly over the metal. Something about his posture—the weight in his shoulders, the careful distance he'd put between himself and the others—made me change direction.

“When I wear it,” he said, not looking at me, his grip tightening on the pendant, “I remember things. Her laughter. Her hands. Warmth. It’s like being haunted by someone I barely knew.”

I sat beside him, close but not touching.