Chapter 28
LILY
Weaver lessons ended at noon. I should have gone straight back to August's house.
I made a detour instead.
I knew the dates, the names, the battles lost and won. I had written essays about the tipping points of revolutions, about how civilizations turned on their own, about the subtle shifts that unraveled empires.
But standing in the middle of it? Living it? Nothing had prepared me for that.
The market was crowded, noisy, full of life.
Even under the weight of oppression, people still came here to trade, to gossip, to steal small moments of normalcy.
It was the kind of place history books glossed over.
The quiet in-between. The space where real people lived before they became footnotes in a war they never asked for.
I wove through the stalls, pulling my hood lower. Adeline had warned me not to linger. A faint sting answered the thought. Threads brushed my wrists like skittish horsehair, urging me on or away, I couldn’t tell.
Still, I stayed. I needed to see this. To understand. Because history didn’t happen in grand speeches or battles. It happened here, in places like this.
It wasn’t long before the crowd shifted.
Conversations died mid-sentence. Vendors suddenly found urgent business elsewhere. Parents pulled their children close, faces going carefully blank.
I knew that fear. Had seen it the first day August walked me through the streets. The way people learned to make themselves invisible when danger came.
I turned toward the disturbance.
Two men in dark coats cut through the market like wolves through sheep. Witch hunters. Between them, they dragged a woman—thin, young, her face red and tear-streaked.
Mira.
My stomach dropped.
She was barely twenty. One of the younger Weavers I'd met. Smart. Careful. Always the first to check the perimeter, to warn others when patrols came too close. And now she was being dragged through the market in broad daylight, her wrists bound in iron that gleamed dully in the afternoon sun.
“Keep moving,” one of the hunters barked as Mira stumbled. He yanked her forward hard enough to make her cry out.
The market had gone silent. Everyone watching. No one intervening.
Mira's eyes swept the crowd, desperate, searching for—what? Help? Sympathy? A friendly face in a sea of carefully neutral expressions? Her gaze found mine. Recognition flashed across her face. Then fear—stark and immediate.
Don't, her expression screamed. Don't give yourself away. Don't help me. Just look away.
But I couldn't. Because I knew what came next. Knew where they were taking her. Knew that by tonight, Mira would be unraveled—erased from existence as if she'd never been born.
My hands curled into fists. My breath turned sharp, shallow. Magic flickered at my fingertips, the golden threads of the world shifting just beyond my reach. If I acted now, I could—
“I’ll take her.” The words cut through the chaos like a blade.
My breath caught.
I turned sharply, and there he was. August.
He moved through the crowd with the kind of authority that didn’t need to be announced. The other Witch Hunters stepped back instinctively as he approached, their grips loosening ever so slightly on Mira.
She stilled, her chest heaving.
The Witch Hunter holding her hesitated. “Sir?”
“Go back to your posts,” August ordered. “I’ll see this one straight to the Unraveler myself.”
Mira froze, the color drained from her face, her lips parting in silent horror.
I could barely hear over the roar in my ears.
No. No, no, no—
August grabbed Mira by the arm and began leading her away from the stalls.
I didn’t think. I moved.
Keeping to the edges of the market, I slipped between carts and crates, keeping just enough distance that I wouldn’t be seen. The noise returned to the crowd as August pulled Mira into a side alley, the walls of the buildings closing in around them.
This was it. This was my chance.
I didn’t know if it was panic, desperation, or instinct, but suddenly, I saw it—the golden strands of life woven around us, twisting through the air, bending with the weight of fate.
Mira’s thread was fraying.
I reached for it, steadying my breath. The magic resisted at first, slippery as ice beneath my untrained grasp. I gritted my teeth, forcing my trembling fingers to find purchase on the threads.
The moment my fingers brushed the frayed edges, a whisper of energy jolted through me.
I gasped, but I didn’t let go. Guide it, I reminded myself. Don’t force. Guide
Two gold filaments braided like ivy in my mind's eye, beautiful and perfect for one shimmering instant—then blackened, snapping like burnt silk.
Pain speared behind my eyes. The nascent weave recoiled, ripping loose from my grip like something alive and wounded. Scattering. Useless.
I hadn’t yet been able to command my magic properly, but this was why I’d been brought here, wasn’t it? To do something. To change something.
I reached again, desperate now, my breath coming in sharp gasps.
“Please.” Mira barely managed the whisper, cutting through my failed attempts.
August didn’t let go.
Instead, he stood there, his grip still tight around her arm. He stared at her, jaw tense, eyes dark.
“You know what you are.”
Mira swallowed hard. “I—I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me.” His fingers flexed, just slightly. “You’re a Weaver.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t done anything—please, I—”
August inhaled slowly, closing his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, his expression had shifted.
“What if you vanished right now—so clean I could swear I never saw you?” His grip loosened, but his eyes stayed cold.
Mira blinked, like she didn’t trust the words.
“What if I say nothing? What if you walk away right now?”
Mira’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Neither of them moved.
My breath was a blade in my throat.
And then, slowly, August’s grip loosened. His fingers undid her cuffs, his knuckles white, his breath measured.
Mira stumbled back, blinking in shock.
“Go.”
She didn’t move. She didn’t trust it. I didn’t blame her.
August’s jaw clenched. He looked at her then—really looked at her. And for the first time, I saw it.
Hesitation.
His mask slipped. Just for a second. And then, his expression hardened. “I said go. Before I change my mind.”
Mira’s legs finally obeyed. She ran. I didn’t.
I pressed myself into the shadows, breath shallow, watching as August stood there, unmoving.
Then—with a sharp inhale—he ran his hands over his face, growling in frustration.
His body was rigid, coiled like a spring about to snap. Lines of strain pulled tight across him, conflict radiating from every nerve. This decision was eating him alive from the inside.
He took a step forward, then stopped, pivoting sharply like he didn’t know where to put himself. Where to direct the storm building in his chest.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, then loosened, then curled again.
The internal battle raged across his features—duty warring with conscience, training with humanity.
And then—with a sharp, violent kick—he sent a wooden crate flying into the alley wall.
The force of it echoed, sharp and sudden. Wood splintered on impact, shards scattering across the ground.
The air went still. Threads licked across my fingertips—hot, nettling sparks—like the Weave itself winced at his self-disgust. I bit my lip to keep from hissing.
But the violence hadn't been enough to purge whatever demon clawed at him.
He turned, pacing a few steps before stopping abruptly, bracing his hands against his hips. His head tipped back, eyes shutting tight. His jaw clenched hard enough to crack.
Then he finally snapped—spun and drove his fist into the nearest wall.
I flinched, pressing myself harder against the stone, my heart hammering. The violence was so sudden, so raw.
Dust and masonry rained down, the shards skittering across the alley stones. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a sound.
But his chest was heaving, breath sharp and ragged. He dropped his fist. His other hand pressed against the wall, his fingers splayed wide as if he needed to steady himself. As if the anger—the guilt—was alive inside him, clawing to get out.
Blood seeped from his knuckles as he dragged that same hand down his face, pressing the heel of his palm hard against his forehead like he could somehow push the conflict back inside, lock it away where it belonged.
“Shit.” The word was barely more than a whisper, rough and raw.
August’s shoulders rose, then settled with a slow grind—as though resetting armor that had been knocked askew. Then—finally—he turned. His expression was carefully blank again, the mask sliding back into place. But I had seen it.
For a moment, just a moment—August Hawthorne had cracked.
I pressed a hand against the stone wall beside me, steadying myself as realization sank deep into my bones. August wasn’t as heartless as he wanted me to believe. If he could spare one Weaver. . . could he spare me?