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Then—darkness.

Silence.

Cold that bit down to the bone.

Gran's warm flat gone. In its place, skeletal trees silver-lit by moonlight. A forest breathing with watching presence, alive with things unseen.

I was no longer alone.

CHAPTER 2

AUGUST

Oxford, 1892

Damp earth and candle smoke. The scents followed me through the dimly lit halls of the Iron Spire, the stronghold of the Witch Hunters. For twenty years, the fortress loomed over Oxford, its jagged spires cutting the sky. Father built it as the heart of his crusade against the Weavers—those who twist fate's threads to their will. This was a place where magic was hunted. Where Weavers were erased. Where the past was rewritten.

My boots struck the polished stone in measured rhythm. The silence between each step deliberate, as if the walls themselves were collecting the sound like a toll paid in advance.

Father had summoned me this morning. The Unraveler's summons were never casual. I kept my expression neutral, shoulders square, but beneath the discipline carved into me since childhood, one question circled: why tonight?

“You look ready to face a firing squad.”

Garrick Wolfe pushed off the archway ahead, falling into step beside me. His blond hair caught the torchlight, and that familiar smirk played at his mouth, the one that had dragged us into trouble more times than I could count.

“What's the old man planning this time?” He adjusted the revolver at his hip. “Another lecture on duty and the greater good?”

“Watch yourself.” There was no heat in my warning. We've had this conversation before.

“I swear, your father sounds more like a damn priest than a hunter. Someone has to keep you from drowning in all that Hawthorne righteousness.” His grin faded as we approach the study door. “Though I suppose that's what he's counting on.”

The door bore Father's mark—a burning spool of thread carved deep into oak. Fate caught mid-spin. Stories silenced before they begin.

I entered alone.

Father stood before the hearth, firelight carving harsh lines across his face. His coat was immaculate despite the day's work, his graying hair precisely combed. When he turned, his eyes reflected nothing but cold purpose.

“Close the door.”

The command carried the weight of twenty-five years hunting Weavers, unraveling their magic, and erasing them from history.

“Do you know what today marks?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. The day you unraveled your first Weaver.”

“One of your mother's killers. Yet, they still persist.” No triumph in the words. Only cold fact.

My chest tightened. The familiar ache, carefully buried, threatened to surface.

“They stole her from us. Promised her power, then left her a broken shell. Magic has a price, August. It always does.”

The words came smooth, practiced. How many times had he told this story?

A sharp knock interrupts. “Sir?” A younger hunter's voice carried through the oak. “Urgent news from the perimeter scouts.”

Father's jaw tightens. “Enter.”

Samuel Ashby stepped inside, still dust-covered from hard riding. At nineteen, he was the newest addition to our hunting parties, eager to prove himself worthy of the Spire's trust.