Chapter 4
AUGUST
We returned empty-handed. Twelve Weavers escaped into the night like smoke through our fingers, and all we had to show for it was Morrison's dislocated shoulder and Ashby’s self-inflicted blade wound. The others bore invisible injuries—pride, mostly, and the sharp sting of humiliation.
Father would be waiting.
My boots echoed against stone as we passed through the courtyard.
Dawn was breaking over Oxford's spires, painting everything in shades of gold and amber—too beautiful for what was coming.
The other hunters peeled away one by one, heading to the barracks or the infirmary, leaving me to face the Unraveler alone.
Except I wasn't alone.
“I'm coming with you,” Garrick said, falling into step beside me. His coat was torn at the shoulder, dirt smudged across his jaw, but that familiar defiance burned in his eyes.
“You needn’t—”
“Yes, I must.” His voice dropped low enough that only I could hear. “When he asks what happened, you'll need someone to corroborate your account. Their attack this time was well planned out.”
He wasn't wrong. Weavers had used illusion magic before, making hunters see phantom enemies, turning allies against each other. Last night's attack was more coordinated than usual, but not unprecedented.
What troubled me wasn't the magic itself.
It was her.
The woman in strange clothing who'd stared at me with eyes full of confusion and terror, as if she had no notion of where she was or what was happening.
She hadn't the bearing of a Weaver. Hadn't moved like one either.
Weavers carried themselves with a certain confidence, an awareness of their power.
This woman had been genuinely frightened, scrambling through the forest like prey rather than predator.
And her attire. Dark blue trousers that hugged her legs—trousers, on a woman. Boots with thick rubber soles. A garment of soft fabric that clung to her frame in a manner no proper dress ever would. Nothing I'd ever seen before.
“August.” Garrick's voice pulled me back. “You're doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“That business where you disappear into your own head.” He studied my face with the familiarity of someone who'd known me since we were boys sneaking into Father's library. “What's really troubling you about last night?”
“The woman,” I said finally. “Did you mark her clothing?”
“Difficult to miss.” Garrick's expression was carefully neutral. “Strange fashion. Foreign, perhaps?”
“I don't believe so.” The words came out steady despite my uncertainty. “And the way she looked about, the way she moved. It wasn't pretense. She was genuinely lost.”
“Weavers are excellent liars.”
“I know. But—” I stopped outside Father's study, one hand on the door. “What if she wasn't one of them?”
Garrick went still. “August. Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Don't start questioning.” His jaw tightened. “We lost twelve Weavers last night. Someone will answer for that. Don't give him cause to make it you.”
The door opened before I could knock.
Father stood in the entrance, backlit by fire. He looked exactly as he’d looked when we left—immaculate coat, precise posture, eyes like winter itself.
“Come in.” He stepped aside. “Both of you.”
The study seemed smaller than usual, the walls pressing close. Father moved to his desk with measured steps, each one deliberate. He didn't look at us. Didn't speak. Just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the map on his wall where Oxford spread out in careful detail.
Red pins marked confirmed Weaver locations. Black pins marked suspected nests. And in Thornwick Woods, a cluster of black pins that had been there for three weeks. The gathering we'd gone to disrupt.
They remained. Mocking us.
“Twelve Weavers,” Father said finally, his voice soft. Dangerous. “Against six of my best hunters. And you returned with nothing.”
“Sir—” I began.
“They used coordinated illusion magic to separate and disorient us,” Garrick said, his tone professional. “By the time we'd regrouped, they'd scattered.”
“You were outmatched.” Father turned, and the disappointment in his eyes cut deeper than any blade. “By Weavers who should have been easy prey.”
“They weren't alone,” I said. “There were others in the forest. Hidden. A woman I didn't recognize. Captured with a young Weaver.”
“A woman.” Father's expression didn't change. “A Weaver as well, no doubt. Did she engage?”
I thought about the chaos that had erupted from nowhere. “The child may have been the source of some of the illusions. But the woman. . .” I hesitated. “She ran as though she didn't know what was happening.”
“A decoy, perhaps.” He moved to his desk, pulling out a leather-bound journal. “The Weavers are growing more sophisticated in their tactics. Using children, staging elaborate performances to throw us off their trail.”
“Morrison is injured,” I said carefully. “Ashby as well. Had we pressed the attack—”
“You might have succeeded.” Father's hand struck the desk hard enough to make the ink bottles rattle. “Or you might have captured one. Brought them back for questioning. Instead, you allowed them to slip away.”
Garrick's hand moved to his weapon before he caught himself. I shot him a warning glance, but Father had already noticed.
“Something to say, Wolfe?”
“No, sir,” Garrick said, but his jaw was tight enough to crack.
Father closed the journal with a snap sharp enough to echo. “I told you what would happen should you fail.”
My blood turned to ice. “Sir—”
“I made myself perfectly clear before you left.” Father's eyes swept over both of us. “Failure has consequences. And someone must pay the price.”
“Then let it be me.” The words left my mouth before I could stop them. “I led the hunt. The responsibility is mine. I’m the Captain.”
“August—” Garrick started, but I cut him off.
“Morrison's shoulder is dislocated because I didn't anticipate the ambush. Ashby is bleeding because I didn’t push forward when I should have. If anyone deserves punishment, it's me.”
Father studied me for a long moment. Something flickered across his face. Pride, perhaps, or satisfaction. But it vanished too quickly to name.
“No,” he said finally. “You're too valuable to waste on a lesson. But your willingness to accept responsibility is noted.”
The relief was short-lived.
“Ashby will do.” Father spoke as casually as if discussing dinner plans. “He's young. Expendable. That blade wound came from weakness. From fear.”
“He's nineteen,” Garrick said, jaw clenched. “Barely trained.”
“Old enough to know better.” Father moved toward the door. “Bring him to me at sunset. I shall handle the rest.”
“Sir—” I tried again, but he held up one hand.
“The matter is settled, August. Unless you'd prefer to take his place after all?”
The trap closed around me. Challenge him now, and Ashby dies regardless. Along with my credibility. Accept it, and live with the knowledge that I'd sent a boy to his death through my failure.
“No, sir,” I managed.
“Good. You're dismissed.”
We left in silence, Garrick's fury radiating off him in waves. He waited until we were three corridors away before he spoke.
“We're not doing this.”
“We haven't a choice—”
“There is always a choice!” He rounded on me, eyes blazing. “Ashby is a boy, August. Barely knows which end of a sword to hold. And your father wants to unmake him because we couldn't catch a group of Weavers who had the advantage of terrain and numbers?”
“Keep your voice down.” I glanced around, but the hallway was empty. “What would you have me do? Defy him? He'll simply choose someone else.”
“So we do nothing?” Garrick's laugh was bitter. “Just allow him to tear apart a nineteen-year-old boy because we failed to meet his impossible standards?”
I didn't have an answer. Couldn't find one in the churning mess of anger and guilt and exhaustion weighing me down.
“There might be another way,” I said slowly.
“What way?”
I thought of the woman in strange clothing. The confusion in her eyes. The way she'd moved through the forest as though she didn't know the first thing about surviving in the wild.
“She's still out there,” I said. “The woman we saw. If we could find her, bring her back—”
“You think one Weaver will satisfy him?”
“Perhaps. If she's connected to the group that ambushed us.” I met his gaze. “And I don't believe she is a Weaver. There was something different about her. Something. . . wrong.”
Garrick stared at me. “You want to go back into those woods and search for a woman who may or may not be connected to last night, based on a feeling?”
“Not alone. You're coming with me.”
“The devil I am.”
“Garrick—”
“No.” He stepped back, hands raised. “I'm not watching you throw your life away chasing mysteries because you cannot accept what happened. Your father wants blood? Very well. Let him have Ashby. But don't make it worse by getting yourself killed searching for this Weaver.”
“She may not be a weaver.” Though saying it aloud made it sound less certain. “ something about her. The way she was dressed, the way she moved—she doesn't fit. And if we can determine what she is, where she came from—”
“Then what? Your father suddenly forgives our failure?” Garrick shook his head. “You're grasping at straws, August.”
He was right. Every logical part of my brain knew this was thin reasoning at best. Going back into those woods, searching for a woman who'd vanished into the night, all to satisfy some inexplicable instinct that she mattered.
But I couldn't shake it. Couldn't unsee the way she'd looked at me, as though I were the monster she'd stumbled onto by accident. Couldn't forget that strange clothing or the genuine terror in her eyes.
“I must try,” I said quietly.
Garrick was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed, deep and resigned. “You're going whether I accompany you or not, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“Damn you.” But there was no heat in it. “We leave now. And if we don't find her within two hours, we return. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”