Page 5 of The Last Stitch

“Weavers, sir. A group of them gathered in Thornwick Woods. Our scouts counted at least twelve, maybe more.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Twelve Weavers working together—I've never encountered more than five at once. They were smart. We suspected there to be a group of at least fifty in Oxford. They never came out in large numbers. Something was causing them to stir.

Father moved to his desk, pulling out a map of the surrounding countryside. “Here.” His finger stabbed at a section of forest marked with old hunting trails. “Perfect for an ambush.”

He looked up at me. “Take your team. Hunt them down.”

The order hit like a physical blow. Not because I feared the Weavers—I've been trained for this since I could hold a blade. But something about tonight was different. Like standing at the edge of a precipice I couldn't see.

“Garrick will accompany you,” Father continued. “Along with Ashby, Hayes, Smith and Morrison. Six should be sufficient.”

Six hunters against twelve Weavers—enough to make my palms sweat, though I kept my expression steady.

“If they're up to something,” I said carefully, “shouldn't we wait for reinforcements?”

Father's eyes narrowed. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

“No, sir.” The response is automatic, drilled into me since childhood.

“Good. Because failure is not acceptable.” He leaned closer, the words barely audible. “Should any of you fail me tonight, I will personally unravel one of your companions. Let that weight rest with you.”

He turned back to the fire. “Fear is efficient. Mercy breeds disobedience. Remember that.”

The threat sank like a stone into my gut. I'd seen what unraveling does. Not just stripping magic, but tearing apart the threads that hold a person together—mind, body, soul. Nothing remains but empty clothes and the smell of burned air. A person unmade, as if they'd never drawn breath.

I pressed my fist to my chest. “As you command.”

As I turned to leave, my reflection caught in the window's dark glass. The necklace at my throat gleamed—familiar, weightless, the only piece of my mother that remained. The metal warmed beneath my fingers. For a heartbeat, I heard her—laughter, soft and fleeting. Impossible.

Not everything is meant to be unraveled, August.

The words lingered like smoke. Memory, I told myself. Not magic. But the distinction had begun to blur, and I no longer knew which frightened me more.

“Go,” Father said. “Before they scatter.”

“Well?” Garrick didn’t look up from adjusting his stirrups.

“Twelve Weavers in Thornwick Woods. We rode with Hayes and Morrison.”

“Twelve?” His hands stilled. “That's. . . ambitious.”

“Father seems to think six hunters are sufficient.”

Garrick's laugh held no humor. “Of course he does.” He secured his rifle to the saddle, movements precise despite his casual tone. “And if we fail?”

“He unravels one of us.”

The words hung in the air between us. We had both seen the aftermath of Father's justice. Empty clothes crumpled on dungeon floors, nothing left of the person who once wore them.

“Lovely.” Garrick swung up into his saddle. “Well, then. I suppose we'd better not fail.”

Ashby, Hayes, Smith, and Morrison emerged from the armory, their horses already prepared. Morrison's been hunting Weavers for twelve years. Steady, reliable, with scars across his left hand from a Weaver's blade. Smith isn’t far behind in years from Morrison and just as reliable. Hayes, nineteen, joined when Ashby did. Both trying to prove something.

“Any word on what they're doing?” Morrison asked.

“Unknown.” I checked my revolver's chambers, then secured my father's gift. A blade forged to cut clean through flesh. “We'll know soon enough.”

The city gates creaked open before us. Oxford faded into mist and memory as we rode toward the countryside, six hunters against an enemy we barely understood.