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“The Weavers could have destroyed them,” the Mender continued. “They had the power. After everything that had been done, no one would have blamed them.” A small shrug. “They chose trials instead. Accountability. Slow and painful, but . . . ” she trailed off.

“Mercy,” I said quietly.

“Mercy.” She nodded. “Some hunters integrated back into society. Some died in prison. Some died still believing they were heroes.” Her gaze drifted to the window, to the ordinary street beyond. “The institution crumbled. Not overnight, but eventually it lost its way.”

I wrapped my hands tighter around my cup, letting the warmth seep into fingers that had gone cold.

They had won. Not just survived—won. And they had done it without becoming the monsters they'd been accused of being.

Outside the window, people passed in bright coats, laughing, talking, living in a world that had never known the terror of being hunted out of existence. A world where magic was discussed over coffee instead of whispered in cellars. A world that existed because of what had happened. Because of what I had done. Because of what he had chosen.

I pressed my thumb hard into the rim of the cup, grounding myself in the small, sharp pain. We had changed history. And our love had paid the price.

Words gathered behind my teeth. I almost asked. Help me. Please. Something is broken inside me. Knotted, tangled, wrong. Can you fix it?

But I swallowed them. Her magic was gentle. Warm. The kind that soothed panic and steadied trembling hands. Surface work. Good work. But not intensive thread work. Not the kind of deep, structural untangling that Lorien had done in a cellar beneath Oxford. This Mender couldn't see the knot buried in my core. Asking would only confuse her, or worse, make her try and fail.

Some damage required someone rare. Someone who could see what others couldn't. Lorien had been that person. Once. In another century. In another life.

I let the request die unspoken.

“I should go,” I said, my voice steadier than the rest of me. “Thank you. For . . . everything.”

She squeezed my hand gently. “You don't have to be alone. Whatever you are going through, it will be okay.”

“I'll be alright,” I lied.

Outside, the air was sharper. Colder. The city roared around me, engines instead of horses, electric lights instead of gas lamps, magic flickering casually in storefronts and passing hands. None of it mine.

I walked without thinking, guided by instinct and something deeper. A need that had nothing to do with refuge and everything to do with proof. I needed to know if he had lived. If he had survived losing me the way I was barely surviving losing him.

Libraries had always been my refuge. Before time travel. Before magic. Before August. When the world made no sense, I went to books. But this was different. This wasn't about comfort.

This was about finding him.

Stone rose ahead of me, broad steps, tall windows, a carved facade I recognized even through the blur of tears. The Bodleian. Relief hit so hard it almost staggered me. Not just a building, not just a place to search for answers, something solid. Unchanged. A fixed point in a world that no longer belonged to me.

I climbed the steps too quickly, skirts gathered in one hand, boots striking worn stone polished by centuries of footsteps. The heavy doors loomed open, spilling warm light across the threshold.

Please don't be closing. Please don't make me wait.

Inside, the air wrapped around me like memory, paper and dust and quiet authority, the faint echo of movement subdued by centuries of reverence. My breathing slowed without permission. My shoulders dropped a fraction. Even now, even after everything, the place demanded stillness.

I crossed the entry hall with purposeful steps, ignoring the curious glances my clothing drew. Let them stare. Let them think I was eccentric, theatrical, unwell. None of it mattered.

What mattered was that somewhere in this building was proof. Proof that August Hawthorne had not just survived that night but had lived. Had walked through years without me. Had grown old in a world I could no longer touch. Or proof that he hadn't.

A clock chimed half past four in the distance. I had thirty minutes to get what I had come for.

I turned toward the history collections. Toward the only answers I could still reach.

Toward him.

CHAPTER 39

LILY

Ileft the library with five books in hand, their weight awkward against my ribs as I hurried down the steps.