Chapter 27
LILY
Aday had passed since the library. Since August’s kindness. Since we’d almost kissed.
I'd spent those days away from the house, away from him. But evenings offered no escape—with the upcoming party, I needed to get my story straight on where I came from.
August was particularly good at coming up with a back story. But something at the library changed him. He spoke more softly, lingered longer. It was as if the man who could break necks without blinking had begun to practice gentleness instead.
Part of me wanted to believe that man was real. That he could be more than a Hunter. But belief was dangerous. So, when daylight came, I sought solace elsewhere.
The Weavers had become my refuge.
The woods had become familiar in a way I hadn’t expected. The tangled roots, the whispering leaves, the way the sun filtered through the trees in golden streaks—nothing about it seemed foreign. This was somewhere I belonged.
Or it was just the people.
Marigold skipped ahead of me on the narrow path, her curls bouncing, her small hands clutching the satchel slung across her chest. She had spent the last ten minutes attempting to convince me she could walk the entire way to the Weavers’ camp with her eyes closed.
“You’re going to trip,” I warned, watching as she narrowly avoided a root jutting from the ground.
“No, I won’t,” she chirped, keeping her eyes firmly shut. “I know this path better than anyone.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And besides, if I fall, you’ll catch me.” She cracked one eye open and shot me a wide, gap-toothed grin.
I sighed, shaking my head, but I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips. “And what if I don’t?”
She gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. “Then I will haunt you forever.”
I snorted. “You’d haunt me?”
“Absolutely.” She nodded, eyes still shut. “I’d move all your things when you weren’t looking. Make the floor creak at night. Whisper your name from the shadows.”
“Sounds terrifying.”
She giggled, then yelped as her foot caught on a loose stone. I grabbed her arm before she could hit the ground, steadying her with a firm grip.
She blinked up at me, sheepish. “Okay, perhaps I should stop walking blind.”
“You think?”
Marigold grinned, squeezing my hand once before darting ahead again, chattering about how she was going to be the best Weaver one day—better than Ysella, even.
I just listened, letting her fill the quiet spaces in my mind.
She reminded me of my little sister.
Maybe it was the stubbornness. Or the way she smiled as if the world had never given her a reason not to. The ache of it caught me off guard—how much I missed home, missed them, missed everything I might never see again.
“Are you even listening?” she huffed, turning on her heel to glare up at me, her hands planted firmly on her hips.
“Absolutely not.”
She gasped, scandalized. “Rude!”
I smirked, but before I could tease her further, she grabbed my hand, dragging me along.
“Come on, slowpoke,” she said. “We’re late.”
We weren’t, but I let her pull me anyway.
Because when Marigold held my hand, the world didn’t feel quite as terrifying.
And for now, that was enough.
The Weavers were outside the cave that morning, scattered through the clearing. Threads shimmered between their fingers, catching sunlight like spun glass. A fire crackled at the center, smoke curling with the scents of angelica, and woodruff.
I froze when a woman knelt in the grass and golden filaments spilled from her hands into her sparring partner’s arm.
At first the glow stitched a shallow cut, skin sealing smooth.
Then the filaments tightened. The other woman’s fingers went slack, her blade tumbling into the dirt.
I flinched, my stomach lurching. The Mender only gave a curt nod, releasing the thread so the arm sprang back to life.
Healing or crippling—same motion, same hand.
Across the fire, Syra raised her chin and suddenly five of her stood there, every copy smirking in unison. One of the younger Weavers yelped and swung at the wrong one, stumbling straight through empty air. The illusions vanished in a blink, Syra’s sharp laugh slicing through the clearing.
“Pathetic. A Hunter would gut you before you even blinked.”
Ysella sighed and plucked a sprig of herb from her braid, tossing it at her sister’s chest. “Have some nettle tea before you terrify the girls.”
“Better they panic here than later,” Syra retorted, though she brewed the leaves anyway.
Then Ysella pressed her palms together. Threads unfurled from her fingers, golden and alive, until the air opened.
For a heartbeat, I saw the far side of the clearing through the seam—firelight doubled, trees doubled, reality folded like fabric.
Then the weave snapped shut. Ysella’s face had gone pale, but she only smiled as though tearing a hole in the world was nothing at all.
I swallowed hard. These weren’t kindly healers or harmless fortune-tellers. They were warriors, bound by a magic I barely understood.
Marigold released my hand and skipped ahead—yet the instant her warmth left my skin, a phantom thread twitched at my wrist, tug-tug, reminding me: Learn to use your powers or you will never save them.
I stepped into the clearing, brushing a stray branch from my sleeve.
“Late again,” Syra drawled, not even glancing up from the spindle in her lap. “At this point we ought to change the lesson schedule to match your sense of time.”
“She only does it to keep you humble,” Ysella said, plucking a daisy from the grass and tucking it into her braid. “Imagine Syra, left unchecked. She’d have us all marching by the bells.”
I crossed my arms, grinning despite myself. “I’m beginning to think you enjoy ganging up on me.”
“Nonsense,” Ysella replied sweetly. “We’re simply. . . guiding you.”
“Guiding her straight into bad habits,” Syra muttered. “Next, she’ll expect tea breaks every quarter hour.”
“And why would we need that?” Ysella teased, handing Syra a steaming mug. “You drink enough for three.”
Syra accepted it with a huff, though the corner of her mouth betrayed the faintest smile. “I tolerate you both. That should be thanks enough.”
Ysella hummed. “Come.”
The first time, the threads had been fleeting—like reaching for smoke, slipping through my fingers before I could hold on. But now, after days of practice, they came faster. Clearer.
They were everywhere.
I no longer had to reach blindly. The moment I focused, the threads were there, shifting, alive beneath my fingertips.
They thrummed with an energy I still didn’t fully understand, but I was beginning to sense them—not just their presence, but their patterns.
Some were taut, wound tight like a drawn bowstring.
Others were loose, gently swaying, waiting to be guided.
I curled my fingers around one, steadying my breath.
It pulsed against my palm—warm, vibrating with potential. The first few times I had done this, the threads had been unpredictable, slipping away the second I pulled too hard or lost my focus.
Now, they responded.
Obeyed.
A flick of my wrist, a gentle nudge—
The leaves above rustled as if caught in a sudden breeze. The fire at the center of the camp flared higher for a breath, then settled. A ripple in the world, small but undeniable.
Marigold let out a delighted gasp. “You moved it!”
I exhaled sharply, my grip tightening. “I—” I blinked, my pulse hammering. “I did.”
“Again!” Marigold urged, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
I swallowed, refocusing. Another thread, this one thinner, lighter. A different kind of pull—
A whisper of air curled around my skin, brushing through Marigold’s curls. Her laughter rang through the clearing. “You felt that, right?”
“You’re improving,” Ysella murmured, watching me carefully. “Faster than I expected.”
I looked at her, breathless. “Is that. . . good?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she studied me, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. “We’ll see.”
I breathed in and let out a slow, controlled breath, rubbing my hands against my skirts before reaching out again.
This time, I wasn’t just grasping a thread. I was going to try something harder—stitching one.
Ysella had explained it two days ago, but I still couldn’t wrap my head around it.
Weavers didn’t just move threads; some mended them, threading the frayed edges of the world back together.
Small things at first—tears in fabric, broken wooden handles, minor wounds.
But trained Weavers could do so much more.
Could I do more?
I rolled my shoulders back, inhaling deeply. The Weave responded instantly, flickering to life before me. I focused, searching for something small—something manageable.
I found a single strand—two golden filaments already twining like ivy, yet fraying at the tips like burnt silk.
Steady. I coaxed the loose ends together, breathing my will into the weave. For a heartbeat they glimmered whole. Then the bond recoiled and snapped. White pain lanced behind my eyes.
Marigold caught my arm before I could stumble. “That was so close!” she practically shouted, her small fingers gripping me tightly.
“I—” I clenched my jaw, swallowing against the throbbing in my temples. “I almost had it.”
Ysella knelt beside me, her expression unreadable. “You did more than I expected,” she admitted. “But you pulled too hard. You need to let the thread want to mend itself. Not force it.”
I wiped my damp palms on my skirts, nodding slowly.
Marigold’s grip on my sleeve tightened. “But you still did it,” she insisted, beaming up at me. “You made it move! No one gets it on the first try.”
I let out a slow, shaky breath, meeting her bright, eager gaze.
It wasn’t perfect.
But the world had bent, if only for a breath.
And that was enough to make me believe—next time, it might not snap.