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“What?” His tone was flat, dismissive—like he was already bracing to tune me out.

But I didn’t stop.

“The disappearances accelerated over time. Starting with a few here and there in the 1860s. By the 1880s, entire families were vanishing. Not because the Weavers got more dangerous—because the hunters got more efficient.”

I took a step forward, jabbing a finger into his chest. “How many innocent people died in that efficiency drive? How many children lost their parents? How many families were torn apart?”

His jaw clenched. His eyes flared.

“How many more would have died if we'd done nothing?” He stepped in close, matching my aggression. “You want to talk about children losing parents? My mother was killed by Weavers. Destroyed by the same power you're so eager to defend.”

The raw pain in his voice—sudden, unguarded—stopped me cold.

“I'm sorry,” I said quietly. “But that doesn't justify⁠—”

“It justifies everything.” He started walking again, faster this time. “You want to understand why we hunt them? Because they're predators. Because they destroy lives and families and everything they touch. Because someone must stop them.”

“Even if it means becoming just as monstrous?”

“You stand there with your modern sensibilities and your academic distance, judging us for doing what's necessary to protect innocent lives. But you've never had to choose between mercy and duty. To live with the consequences of letting a Weaver go free.”

“And you've never had to live with the consequences of systematic erasure!” I shot back. “Do you even keep count? Do you know how many people you've helped erase from existence? Do their names haunt you, or are they just acceptable losses in your holy war?”

The silence that followed was deafening. We stood there on the street corner, too close, both of us breathing hard, the space between us crackling with anger.

“Every single one,” he said finally, barely a whisper. “I remember each name. Every face.”

He looked away, jaw working. “So don't presume to lecture me about consequences, Miss Whitmore. I live with them every day.”

This wasn't academic for him. This wasn't historical research or philosophical debate. This was his life. His trauma. His impossible choices made real.

“I'm sorry,” I said quietly, and meant it. “About your mother. About all of it. But Mr. Hawthorne—that doesn't make it right. It just makes it tragic.”

“Perhaps.” He started walking again, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tense. “But tragic doesn't change what needs to be done.”

We continued our walk in silence through Oxford's morning streets. Women in walking dresses, men in dark suits, a street vendor calling out something I couldn't quite catch. Everyone looked purposeful, going about their lives without any idea that the world they knew would be completely transformed in just a few decades. I wondered how my world would be different if Weavers had survived.

I was still processing our argument, the rawness of his admission about remembering every name, when I saw her.

A small figure huddled in a doorway ahead, dressed in rags too thin for the October chill. Dark blonde hair hung in tangles around her face, and she held out a grimy hand to passersby who ignored her with practiced ease.

But I recognized her immediately.

The girl from the forest. The one with starlight eyes who'd told me to run.

My steps faltered. August's hand immediately touched my elbow—steadying or warning, I couldn't tell.

“Keep walking,” he murmured. “Don't stare or they won’t stop begging for coin.”

But the girl had already seen me. Our eyes met across the crowded street, and recognition flashed in her gaze. She didn't move. Didn't call out. Just held my gaze for a heartbeat, and then⁠—

The noise of the street dimmed, like sound sinking underwater. Then words bloomed in my mind—bright, impossible, sliding into my consciousness like they'd always been there.

Tomorrow. Nine. Old bell tower near the forest. Come alone.

I stumbled, gasping. August's grip tightened on my elbow, keeping me upright.

“What's wrong?”