Page 69

Elias crouched before her, tilting his head slightly. “It is not destruction,” he corrected. “It is correction.”

The words should have settled like truth in my chest. Instead, they twisted, lodging beneath my ribs like something I couldn’t dislodge.

“August,” Elias said, rising.

I straightened, schooling my expression into something unreadable. “Yes, Father.”

“Hold her.”

A simple command. Good—a flawless arrest will prove Lily isn’t clouding my judgment.

I had done worse before. Had held blades to throats, had given orders that led men to their graves. This should be no different. But this one had looked at me like she already knew how it ended. Like she’d seen my future and mourned it.

And yet, my hands clenched at my sides.

I stepped forward, ignoring the tightening in my chest as I reached for the Weaver’s shoulder. The fabric of their cloak was rough beneath my fingers, damp from the earth. Her skin was warm beneath it. Alive.

She turned her head slightly, eyes locking onto mine.

I expected hatred. Rage.

Instead, I saw something worse.

Pity.

A slow, creeping chill slid down my spine.

Elias stepped closer, his presence looming beside me. I didn’t move as he extended a hand, fingers splayed. The air between us shifted, like something unseen had been plucked from the space between worlds. The Weaver inhaled sharply, her body stiffening.

The unraveling had begun.

Her breath came quicker, but still, she didn’t struggle. Didn’t scream.

I had never seen one of them go so quietly.

The air vibrated—warped by something ancient and wrong. Her edges blurred, reality fraying around her like thread pulled from a worn cloth.

My fingers flexed, phantom-burning where they gripped her cloak before I realized what I was doing.

“August,” Elias said, his tone edged with warning.

I let go. Stepped back.

For the first time, I turned away before it was over. I told myself it didn’t matter. But the truth was, it did.

I kept walking. Step after step, away from the clearing, away from the unraveling, away from the sharp, knowing gaze of a Weaver who was no longer whole.

I didn’t stop until the trees swallowed the sounds behind me.

Only then did I let myself breathe.

The air was sharp in my lungs, cold despite the warmth of the afternoon sun filtering through the leaves. I clenched and unclenched my hands, feeling the phantom weight of the Weaver’s shoulder beneath my grip. The warmth of them. The life.

And now, she was gone.

I had told myself it was necessary. That the world was better—safer—without them. But the words rang hollow—an echo of a belief I no longer trusted.

You don’t understand what you destroy.