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CHAPTER 20

AUGUST

Long shadows crept through the trees as we moved in formation. The forest was thick, but it wasn’t silent. The distant crack of a branch. The hurried rustling of underbrush. Signs of movement—signs of prey.

A stretch of boggy earth sucked at my boots, slick and treacherous. I skidded, momentum faltering as mud splashed up my coat. Garrick vaulted past with a muttered curse. I wrenched free, lungs burning—no time for footing, only the hunt.

We had been tracking the Weavers for over an hour.

Garrick kept pace beside me, scanning the trees with sharp eyes. “They’re running. Feels like they knew we were coming.”

“They always run.” I didn’t slow my steps. “They know what happens when they’re caught.”

A flicker of movement up ahead.

I signaled to the men, and we broke apart. Garrick veered right, two others to the left. I stayed in the center, waiting, watching. The moment stretched, thick with anticipation.

Then, like a snap of a thread—chaos.

The forest erupted with movement.

Weavers darted through the trees, their cloaks flaring behind them as they tried to escape. I surged forward, my heart steady, boots crunching over fallen leaves. One by one, they slipped out of sight, vanishing into the underbrush like wisps of smoke.

Almost all of them.

A strangled cry sounded just ahead.

I turned sharply, my eyes locking onto the scene. One of my men had tackled a figure to the ground, pinning them down with a knee pressed hard against their back.

A Weaver.

But not just any Weaver—something about the tilt of their shoulders was familiar. Recognition punched the air from my lungs.

She had sharp features and eyes that still burned with defiance. Eyes I remembered.

I’d seen this face before. Years ago.

Lorien Wynn.

The name surfaced from somewhere I'd buried long ago. We had been in school together—before the Spire, before the unravelings, before everything turned to blood and judgment. She had been quiet, sharp-minded, always scribbling in the margins of her notebooks with ink-stained fingers. I remembered the way she used to hum when she read. The way she never looked away from a fight, even when she was outmatched.

And now she stood before me, bound. A criminal in my father’s eyes. A Weaver.

The hunter dragged her up roughly, binding her wrists. She didn’t cry out. Didn’t plead.

Her gaze lifted and landed on me.

And for a heartbeat—just one—her expression shifted.

Recognition passed between us.

Something human. Something real.

“Take her to the clearing,” I ordered.

She said nothing. But as she passed me, her eyes lingered—full of hatred. I ignored it. This was the cost of what they were.

We moved through the trees, the others falling in line. The rest of their kind had escaped, but we had one. One was enough.