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Garrick rode beside me, his hand rested easy on his weapon. But I caught him glancing at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Whatever he saw in my expression made his own grow troubled.

“You know,” he said quietly, “ no shame in questioning orders that seem designed to get us killed.”

“Careful.” But even as I said it, the words seemed hollow.

The forest waited ahead, dark and full of secrets. And with each mile we traveled, the weight of my mother's necklace grew heavier—not as a memory, but as a question that refused to stay buried.

If Weavers truly destroyed my mother, tonight they would pay for it.

If they didn't. . . then everything I've believed, all I've done in Father's name, has been a lie.

There was no wind, no movement. Only an eerie silence that clung like velvet and sunk into my marrow.

The trees closed around us like a trap, and fireflies drifted through the darkness like scattered stars, beautiful and unreachable.

Rumors had been spreading for weeks. Weavers, rebuilding. Some say they’ve grown stronger. Others believed they had touched older magic. Deep-threaded things that even my father couldn’t erase.

The deeper we rode into Thornwick Woods, the more the world changed.

Moss hung from branches like tattered burial shrouds. The air grew thick—old growth and something else, something that crawled beneath my skin. Magic. It left a taste like metal on the tongue, sharp as the moment before lightning strikes.

The company fell silent. Not the comfortable quiet of men at ease, but the breathless hush of prey sensing predator.

And in that silence, pressure built against my ribs. The woods weren't empty. They were waiting.

CHAPTER 3

LILY

Oxford, 1892

The world slammed back into me. Wet leaves cushioned my fall, their dampness seeping through my clothes like cold fingers. Pain radiated from my ribs, sharp and immediate. Each inhale cut like swallowing broken glass.

When I finally managed to lift my head, everything was wrong.

Trees surrounded me. Ancient oaks stretched toward a star-scattered sky. The air tasted of moss and wild things, nothing like the exhaust and electricity of home. My heart hammered against my ribs as understanding crashed over me in waves.

Gran's hourglass. The glowing sand. The impossible pull.

A small hand grabbed mine.

“Get up!”

I turned to find a girl staring at me with desperate eyes. She couldn’t be more than ten, with tangled blonde hair and a torn dress that looked like it belonged in a history book. Terror radiated from her in waves.

“What—” My voice cracked. Nothing made sense. The girl, the forest, the wrongness of it all.

Then I heard it. Hoofbeats thundering through the trees. Men shouted orders. The sulfur-sharp crack of gunpowder.

I froze. My legs went numb. My ears filled with static. I whirled toward her. My hands tightened on hers. “What’s going on? Who. . .”

“Run!” she screamed again, dragging me forward.

I stumbled after her, boots skidding over wet leaves and hidden roots. She darted through the trees, barefoot and silent as smoke. Behind us, the pounding of hooves grew louder. Branches snapped. Metal rang out. Orders cracked through the dark.

They weren’t just chasing us.

They were hunting us.