Page 131 of The Last Stitch

The knowledge sat in my stomach like poison.

“Magic, sir,” Hayes whispered urgently. “I can smell it.”

My father's orders had been clear: sweep the northern woods, find the child, eliminate anyone harboring her. He'd assigned me a double column—twenty men, all prepared to follow my commands without question.

He thought he was testing my loyalty after last night's failure at the Pemberton dinner.

“Captain?” Hayes looked at me expectantly. “Your orders?”

I stared into the dark woods, knowing what waited beyond. Lily. Adeline and Garrick, if they’d stayed. The Weavers I should have been protecting all along.

My mother’s people.

“We advance,” I said quietly. “But listen carefully. When we reach the camp, no one fires without my direct order. We take them alive for questioning.”

Davies frowned. “Sir, the Unraveler's orders were⁠—”

“I know what the orders were.” I turned to face him, each word deliberate, hard. “But I'm the one leading this patrol, and I'm telling you: no one fires unless I give the command. Is that understood?”

A ripple of confusion passed through the men, but discipline held. “Yes, sir,” Davies said slowly.

We moved through the forest like ghosts, weapons ready, each man alert for the magical attacks they'd been trained to expect.

As we moved deeper into Weaver territory the tree roots became claws grabbing at our boots. Warning us to turn around. Instead, we marched on until the magic was so thick I would have swore I could have seen the magic with my own eyes if I tried hard enough.

We had made it. The Weaver camp.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Lily was in there. She had no idea we were coming—no warning, no time to prepare. I'd told Garrick to take her where she would be safe, but safe from what? From my father’s questions, yes. But not from a coordinated assault led by the Unraveler's own son.

Not from me.

Morrison raised a fist, the signal to stop. Through the trees ahead, I caught movement. A figure perched on the branches, barely visible in the darkness. A lookout.

Davies had already seen it. He moved with the silence of a predator, circling wide. Within seconds, he’d climbed the neighboring tree, using the thick canopy for cover.

The lookout never had a chance to cry out. Davies's hand clamped over their mouth as his blade pressed against their throat. A woman—young, terrified, but smart enough to go still.

“Quiet,” Davies mouthed to her. “Or your friends die.”

He brought her down from the tree, keeping his hand firmly over her mouth, the blade never wavering. When she was on the ground, I got my first clear look at her.

Not Lily. Not anyone I recognized. Just a frightened woman doing her best to protect her people.

“There will be others,” Morrison murmured. “They wouldn't post just one.”

He was right. Within minutes, my men had captured two more sentries—a girl barely older than Thomson, and another woman who'd been stationed near the eastern approach. All taken silently, efficiently, before they could raise an alarm.

Three Weavers bound in iron and gagged, watching me with eyes that held fear and hatred in equal measure.

“Captain,” Morrison said quietly, gesturing forward. “The camp is just ahead.”

Through the trees, I caught glimpses of women and children preparing for the evening. Completely unaware that twenty armed hunters surrounded them.

And there, kneeling beside Marigold, was Lily. Her red hair caught the surrounding lights, and even from this distance, I could see the gentle patience in her posture.

Beautiful. Alive. Completely vulnerable.

My chest tightened so violently I nearly gasped.