Page 162

Toward the Spire.

Toward war.

But we didn’t go in alone.

While Garrick and I scouted the Spire, Lily had done what she did best—woven the broken pieces into something whole. The Weavers weren’t soldiers. But they were survivors. Magic lived in their blood, and where Elias had tried to unmake them, they’d learned how to hold each other together.

According to Lily's plan, Abigail and Mira were guarding the northern gate, two Bonders beside them ready to raise magical barriers. Two Menders waited at the southern wall with supplies. Three Seers watched from the bell tower, cloaked and still. They were our eyes.

It was a shame Ysella was captured. Her ability to open a portal would have been a beneficial talent to have right about now.

We didn’t have an army, but what we had would have to be enough.

“They know what to do,” Lily had whispered before we ascended. “If we get Ysella and the others out, they’ll draw attention—buy us time. They’re ready to fight. Just. . . not with swords.”

Lily turned towards the weavers that came with us. Syra, Thessaly, and three others. “We get our Weavers out before anyone notices.”

Lily stood beside me, hand tight around her stolen blade. Her hood had slipped back, her red hair glowing like fire in the dark. Before we moved, she looked at me—just for a heartbeat—and I saw not fear, but fierce determination.

“Five minutes,” she murmured.

“We won’t need more,” I said, then added quietly, “Stay close to me.”

When she moved ahead of me up the final steps, close enough that her shoulder brushed mine, something electric sparked between us despite the death waiting above. Even here, even now, I couldn't ignore the pull between us.

We rose into the light.

At the far end of a platform, shackled and bloodied, were three Weavers.

I spotted Ysella first.

She knelt upright, spine unbowed despite the blood in her hair. Her hands were bound with iron—the kind that burned Weaver flesh—but her gaze was steel. Even from this distance, I could see the faint shimmer around her wrists where her magic fought against the restraints.

Astrid stood to her right, swaying. The girl on the left was young, maybe sixteen. Her lips pressed in a thin line, white with fear.

“We need to get them now,” Lily hissed.

But something was wrong. The courtyard was too quiet. Too exposed. I'd learned to trust my instincts during years of hunting, and every nerve was screaming danger.

That's when I heard it—marching boots. Not from one direction, but from all sides.

Hunters poured into the square like floodwater surging through broken gates, uniforms dark against the sandy dirt, boots stirring dust. Blades and guns drawn. Eyes cold. There were too many. Far too many.

They'd been waiting.

“They knew we were coming,” I breathed. My chest constricted. All of this—the planning, the hope—it had been for nothing. We'd walked straight into his trap.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Then a shimmer of gold bloomed at the north gate—Abigail’s signal. The Bonders raised the barrier just in time, a wall of magic flaring to shield us from the tightening ring of Hunters.

Mira darted into the fray—fast, lethal, clearing a path.

I sprinted for the platform.

Garrick fought at my side, wordless and brutal. He downed a guard before the man could raise a cry. Another rushed me. I parried and drove my blade through his ribs.

“August!” Lily’s voice rang through the courtyard.