Chapter 41
LILY
Iwoke to muted voices, the soft murmur of conversation filtering through heavy canvas.
A tent. Warm lantern-light flickered across the ceiling, casting wavering shadows.
For a disoriented moment, I couldn't recall where I was—only that my body was wrong, as though someone had pulled all the strings from a marionette and left it crumpled on the floor.
My chest ached with a hollow emptiness, as though something vital had been carved out of me and left to rot. The threads of my magic—once a steady warmth beneath my skin—were frayed, brittle. When I reached for them, pain lanced through my skull like lightning splitting a tree.
Slowly, memory returned. The ball. The Unraveler. Marigold, August, the Hunters—
Hunters.
I sat upright, heart jolting painfully. My head spun at the sudden movement, nausea rising as those damaged magical threads protested the abrupt motion. The world tilted sickeningly before settling again.
“Easy,” someone soothed. A slender woman with braided golden hair and calm eyes sat behind me—one of the Menders, her face gentle yet lined deeply by worry. Threads shimmered faintly around her fingertips as she reached toward me. A whisper of warmth eased the worst of the aches in my head.
“Is everyone. . .” I couldn't finish the thought. The words too fragile, too dangerous to speak aloud.
Her expression tightened, grief shadowing her eyes. “Most of us made it through. But Ysella stayed behind to hold the passage open, and Astrid and Abigail were cut off before they could reach it. All three were captured.”
Astrid, who'd taught me to braid defensive wards. Abigail, who always saved me a seat by the fire. Gone.
Captured. The word hit me like a physical blow. Ysella was in Elias's hands because I hadn't been strong enough, fast enough, better somehow.
“And Marigold?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
The woman's expression softened. “Safe. Frightened, but unharmed.”
At least that much had gone right.
“August,” I whispered, glancing around the tent's confines. “Where is he?”
“Outside, organizing our defenses and overseeing the wounded. Several were injured in the fight.” She sighed, a weary sound heavy with sorrow and resignation. “This camp is temporary—we are well hidden for now. Miles away from the cave and Hunters.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Roughly three hours.” She patted me on the knee. “But you need your rest.”
Three hours. I'd been unconscious for three hours while everyone else dealt with the aftermath of my failure.
I pushed aside the blankets, ignoring how my muscles trembled with the effort. The simple act of standing sent waves of dizziness through me, and I had to grip the tent pole for support. “I need to help.”
“Child, you've already given more than you can spare.” The Mender's expression softened even as her grip tightened on my arm. “Your threads are badly frayed. If you push further without proper rest, you risk complete unraveling.”
Unraveling. A chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air slipped down my spine. In my own time, the worst thing that could happen to you was death. Here, there were fates more terrible than that.
“Take me to them,” I insisted softly.
She hesitated, studying my face with the practiced eye of someone who'd seen too many Weavers push themselves past their limits. Then she nodded and held the tent flap open.
Cold night air rushed in, carrying the scent of pine, woodsmoke, and medicinal herbs. But underneath those familiar smells lurked something darker—the metallic tang of blood, the bite of fear, the weight of grief made manifest. She helped me step out of the tent.
The makeshift encampment nestled in a natural depression between towering pine trees, their thick canopy providing concealment.
Cleverly placed barriers of fallen logs and stacked stones created defensive positions, while lookouts kept watch from elevated platforms built into the larger trees.
It was more organized than any refugee camp I'd seen in documentaries, yet carried the same air of desperate impermanence.
Mending Weavers moved quietly through the camp, their golden threads shimmering like captured starlight as they worked to knit wounds and ease pain.
The sight was beautiful and devastating—these people pouring out the last of their strength to care for one another, knowing tomorrow might bring discovery and death.
Some knelt beside bedrolls, faces taut with concentration as they coaxed torn flesh back together stitch by stitch.
Others drifted between the fires, their weaving purifying water, stretching meager food into something almost sustaining.
Each movement spoke of long practice, of survival pressed into ritual.
And the truth cut deep, sharp as a blade beneath my ribs: the quiet, stubborn endurance of a people who refused to vanish.
August stood near the center of the clearing, his bloodied coat discarded and sleeves rolled to his elbows as he spoke with a cluster of Weavers. Maps were spread across a makeshift table, marked with what looked like patrol routes and safe passages.
Watching him coordinate the defense of people he'd once been trained to kill stirred something complex in my chest. Days ago, I would never have imagined this scene—August Hawthorne, the Unraveler's son, planning the protection of Weavers with the same intensity he'd once brought to their destruction.
As though sensing the weight of my gaze, he turned abruptly.
In three strides, he was before me, hands rising to cradle my face as if I might break.
The last time we'd touched like this, we'd been in his kitchen, stealing a moment before the world fell apart.
Now the world had fallen apart, and somehow we were both still standing.
“You should be resting.” His eyes—more green than usual—scanned over me, lingering too long, as if memorizing each line of me.
“So should you.” My eyes dropped to where he had been wounded. “You took a bullet.”
“You burned yourself out.” His thumb traced my cheekbone. “I'd say we're even.”
“Not even close,” I whispered, though my chest tightened around the lie. “But what about Ysella?” The name scraped past my lips, heavy with guilt, sharp as glass lodged beneath my ribs.
His jaw clenched. Pain cut through his expression—pain not just for Ysella, but for me.
“We’ll get her back. My father won’t execute her immediately.
His methods are. . .” His expression shuttered, going distant.
“Cruel. Methodical. He’ll try to break her first, strip her for information. That buys us time.”
The way he said my father—with the same contempt he'd once reserved for Weavers—reminded me how completely he'd turned. This wasn't August Hawthorne, son of the Unraveler. This was someone new. Someone better.
“How much time? She sacrificed herself for me—for all of us.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hands shifted, his thumbs brushing along my cheekbones in a slow, grounding stroke that made my pulse riot. When he finally spoke, I caught the faint tremor in his fingers, the exhaustion shadowing his eyes.
“Enough,” he said, firm, unyielding. “I know his patterns. I know his cages. We’ll reach her before he does permanent harm.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Then his gaze dropped to my mouth before flicking back up to hold mine, something fierce sparking there.
“Helping these people. . .” He stepped closer, close enough that only I could hear.
“People I was raised to hunt. . . It isn’t what I expected.
But I’ll burn this world before I let them down. ”
The vow vibrated between us. My hand found his, fingers tangling, and though pain lanced through my depleted reserves, I couldn’t release him. The contact was too much, too dangerous, yet not enough. His grip tightened, anchoring me. Inside, I was fraying, breaking apart—but he held me together.
When he looked at me, I saw more than concern—I saw grief. Raw and fresh. He'd killed one of his own men tonight. A boy he'd trained. I wanted to ask if he was alright, but the words stuck in my throat. How do you ask someone if they're okay after they've had to kill a friend?
Around us, Menders moved silently, their golden threads weaving through the air like fragile strands of hope, illuminating the shadows we stood in. But I couldn’t look away from him. August Hawthorne—the man raised to be my enemy, who now held me as if I were the only reason he still breathed.
Then I saw Syra. Her braid hung disheveled, eyes red-rimmed with grief. She stood rigid near the perimeter, trembling with an emotion so sharp it looked like rage.
“She got us out,” Syra said when she noticed my approach, staring at nothing. “Looked right at me before she turned back. Smiled. Like she was saying goodbye.”
I stepped forward, my legs still unsteady. “Because she was.”
Her breath hitched, but she didn't move.
“She should've run. I told her to. I begged her to come with us.
She handed me the youngest ones and turned back toward the forest. I thought she'd follow once they were safe. I thought. . .” Tears spilled over, and I saw the exact moment when hope died in her eyes.
“I shouldn't have let her make that choice.”
A tremor worked its way up my spine—not from magical exhaustion this time, but from recognition. “She didn't give you the option to decide. She chose. She knew exactly what she was doing.”
“But what if that choice gets her unraveled?” Syra's composure shattered then, her fingers digging into my arms. “Do you understand what that means? Not just death—complete erasure. Her threads cut from the weave entirely. No memory, no trace that she ever existed.”
The words sent ice through my veins. In my time, we feared death, but this. . . this was obliteration. To be erased so completely that even the universe forgot you had existed.
I reached out, gently taking her hands. “She didn't turn back to die. She turned back to buy us time, to give us a chance to fight. She believed in us—in what we could accomplish. And we're not going to let her sacrifice be meaningless.”
Over her shoulder, I caught August's eye. His expression mirrored my resolve, tempered by sorrow but fueled by fierce determination. Strange how easily we'd learned to communicate without words.
Syra's jaw clenched, tears finally spilling over. “Then we fight like hell.”
“I promise,” I said, meaning it with every fiber of my being. “For her. For all of us.”
Around us, the camp murmured in quiet agreement, the soft glow of golden threads illuminating weary but determined faces. And though darkness pressed heavily against the edges of our sanctuary, we stood ready to face whatever came next—bound not just by grief, but by hope.