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He scrambled upright and stared at the wreckage. At the place where she had sat. Where she had watched their son play in the gardens. Where she had been alive.

Broken now. Not by magic. By the weight of the man she had loved, stumbling in the fight she had tried to prevent.

The horror on his face was real. Raw. The first genuine emotion I had seen from him since we entered the room.

I almost hesitated. Almost let that flash of humanity stop me.

Then his expression hardened, and his Unraveling slammed into me with redoubled fury, fueled by grief he would never admit to feeling.

In the heartbeats between his attacks, I helped Lily. She'd dodge Constance's makeshift weapons, and I'd cut the threads holding them together. She'd create void pockets, and I'd deepen them by severing the surrounding air.

And Lily helped me. When my father's Unraveling got too close, her magic would catch my scattering threads before they dissolved completely, reweaving them.

But we were exhausting ourselves. The room was being destroyed around us, candles toppled and guttering, his wife's books scattered and trampled underfoot, the shrine to Elowen breaking apart in the violence of the battle being fought over her memory.

I felt the cost in Lily first, her magic burning through her reserves even with the pendant channeling it. Each attack cost more. Each restoration took longer.

And I was struggling too. Severing my father's constant Unraveling attacks required total focus. One moment of distraction and he'd unravel me entirely.

My father saw our exhaustion.

"You can't win like this," he said, not even breathing hard. "Divided. Distracted. Eventually one of you will falter." His eyes found Lily. "And I think I know which one."

He was right.

Across the room, Lily stumbled. Her void magic flickered, weak. Constance pressed her advantage, glass shard raised for a killing blow.

I reached to help⁠—

My father struck with everything he had.

His Unraveling slammed into me with such force I couldn't sever it in time. It hit my spine, dissolving the connections between brain and body. My legs buckled. Arms went slack.

I crashed to my knees, gasping, unable to move.

Paralyzed.

August! Lily's panic slammed through the bond.

I tried to sever the paralysis, but my father had woven it too deeply into my nervous system. Every thread I cut, he replaced instantly.

"Watch," my father said, standing over me. "This is what I wanted you to see."

He walked toward where Constance had Lily cornered, bleeding and exhausted.

Through the bond, I felt Lily reaching for me. Trying to help me while defending herself from Constance. Trying to do both and failing at each.

August, I can't⁠—

I know. I fought desperately against the paralysis. Run. Get out.

I'm not leaving you, she sent back. Not ever.

My father stopped before them both. Studied Lily with that cold, analytical gaze.

"You Weavers," he said conversationally. "You're like cockroaches. No matter how many I Unravel, more always seem to appear." He tilted his head. "I stood before you once, Miss Whitmore. In a ballroom full of candlelight and silk. I looked into your eyes and asked if you were Weaver-born. And I sensed nothing."

"I said you reminded me of my wife." His voice dropped, soft and poisonous. "I was more right than I knew."