Chapter 49
LILY
The Weave pulsed beneath my skin before dawn touched the treetops.
It started as a hum in my fingertips. Light threading through the air like a whispered thought, and I knew without looking that Mira and Thessaly sensed it too.
We’d called out through the current, sent word along the threads only Weavers could follow, and now. . . they were answering.
“They’re coming,” I said softly.
August stood beside me outside the cabin, eyes narrowed toward the forest. His jaw was tight, shoulders rigid with the kind of tension that came from returning to a place you'd sworn never to see again. Oxford lay just beyond these woods—his father's domain, his childhood prison.
“Are you ready for this?” I asked quietly.
His hand brushed the hilt of his blade, the same blade he'd once drawn against women like the ones now trusting him with their lives. “I spent my life as his weapon,” he said quietly. “Today I choose who I fight for.”
The clearing shifted.
A line of silver split the air near the tree line, shimmering like heat haze against morning frost. The portal unfurled—not with sound, but with pressure, as though the forest was holding its breath.
And then Syra stepped through, her braid looped high atop her head like a crown woven from moonlight and judgment.
Behind her came others—thirty, maybe more—each cloaked in linen and resolve. Magic clung to them like second skin. The moment they crossed into the clearing, the Weave ignited beneath my ribs, welcoming them like kin returned from travel.
August's jaw tightened as he watched the Weavers emerge.
I remembered the first time he'd spoken of Weavers—his disdain, trained by years of his father's lies.
Now he stepped slightly forward, placing himself between the new arrivals and any threat from Oxford's direction. The hunter had become the shield.
Syra surveyed the cabin with her usual disapproval. “Charming,” she said dryly.
Mira grinned. “You made it.”
“Of course we made it. Your call nearly knocked half the glade off its roots.” She turned her attention to me. “You’re certain about this plan?”
“As certain as I’ve ever been.”
She gave a slow nod. “We’ve left a few behind with the younger ones. Everyone else is yours.”
Garrick emerged from the cabin, shirt half-laced, revolver strapped to his hip, squinting in the dawn. He stopped dead when he saw the crowd of women gathered in the clearing.
“Well,” he drawled, “if I’d known the rescue mission came with this many beautiful allies, I might’ve trained as a Weaver instead of a Hunter.”
One of the younger Weavers—barely twenty, with power that crackled like lightning around her fingers—looked him up and down. “A shame men cannot weave threads,” she said. “You might actually be useful then.”
Garrick's grin turned wicked. “Oh, I'm plenty useful, love. Just ask anyone who's needed saving.” He spun his revolver once before holstering it with practiced ease. “Besides, I'd rather watch you work. Much more entertaining than anything I could manage.”
The young Weaver's cheeks flushed despite herself. “Flattery won't distract me from the fact that you'll likely be a liability.”
“A charming liability, though.” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I'll grow on you. I always do.”
Thessaly snorted. Mira elbowed him, but she was fighting a smile.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Syra muttered, but I caught the way her gaze lingered on our small group. Us against Elias and whatever forces he'd gathered. The math was sobering.
Now, with Garrick’s teasing hanging in the air and all those powerful women standing shoulder to shoulder beneath the trees, it struck me how rare this was. To be surrounded by women who weren’t hiding their strength but wielding it. Not for power. Not for glory. But for each other.
“We should move,” August said. “The morning council meeting begins in two hours. That's when Elias will be surrounded by Oxford's most powerful citizens—the ones who've been funding his war against us.”
As we headed out Mira caught my arm as the others moved ahead. “A moment, Lily?”
I turned, surprised by the gentle concern in her expression.
“Have you considered—” she paused delicately, her gaze flicking briefly toward August's retreating form. “Precautions?”
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I appreciated her directness. “I—yes. But I don't know—”
“May I?” She held up her hand. The familiar tingle of threads appeared around us.
With a quick, precise movement, she reached out and did something I couldn't quite see—a snip, an adjustment.
“There. When you're ready for children, any Weaver can mend it. But for now. . .” She smiled gently. “Love without fear.”
My throat tightened. “Thank you.”
“We take care of our own,” she said simply, squeezing my hand before heading inside.
We traveled by the edges of the forest, keeping to the cover of bare trees and half-frozen brush. It was slower, more dangerous, but safer than marching through the town center like a declaration. Even with magic humming in our bones, we were still human enough to bleed.
By the time Adeline's estate came into view—pale stone rising against the lavender haze of morning—my hands were trembling. Not from cold, but from the magnitude of what we were about to attempt. One mistake, and we’d lose them all.
“The tunnel is this way. Elias plans to present them to his council as proof of his success. We get them out before then.”
“Then let’s make history,” Mira murmured beside me.
I looked at the faces surrounding me—women who had lost everything, who had every reason to run but had chosen instead to fight. August, who was walking into his worst nightmare for the chance to stop his father.
As we approached the tunnel's entrance, August caught my arm gently. His fingers found the pulse at my wrist, a gesture that had become habit, his way of grounding himself.
“Lily,” he said quietly, “if we're discovered before we reach them, if Elias realizes I've betrayed everything he taught me—”
“We're going to save those Weavers,” I interrupted. “We're going to stop your father. And we're all going to walk out of there alive.”
“Promise me,” his grip tightened, “that you'll weave yourself out of there. Don't let his hatred for what I've become put you at risk.”
“I can't promise that.”
I thought of every Weaver we'd lost, every woman who'd trusted me and paid for it with her life. Of August, who'd walked away from everything he'd known because I'd shown him another choice.
“But I promise to fight like hell.”
The door opened with barely a whisper of sound.
We crossed the threshold into shadow and stone, into the heart of everything we'd been fighting against. The air changed immediately—cold and stale, carrying the faint mineral smell of earth that hadn't seen sunlight in decades. Our footsteps echoed too loudly against the ancient stone.
Behind us, the morning light faded like a door closing on the life we'd known.
Ahead lay the tunnel that would take us to Elias Hawthorne.
And to the end of everything.