Page 8 of The Last Stitch

The grip on my arms loosened as my captor turned, distracted by the chaos. His face went slack with confusion, then fear, as he stared at empty air and raised his weapon with shaking hands.

The man on the horse was motionless. He kept his eyes on me—as if I were the only real thing left. Then his voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

“Hold formation!” Sharp. Commanding. “It's illusion—they're not real!”

But his men were already scattering, lost to their own private terrors. One swung at empty air. Another backed against a tree, trying to decide where to strike.

“Stand down!” the man shouted again, but the order dissolved into the pandemonium.

He sat rigidly in his saddle, jaw tight with barely contained frustration. His hand moved to his weapon—hovered there, but didn't draw. While his men descended into chaos, he watched with that same cold intensity, his gaze sweeping across the clearing in measured increments as if trying to piece together what his soldiers couldn't see.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. His knuckles whitened on the reins.

But he didn't charge in blindly like the others. Didn't slash at shadows or cry out warnings about phantom enemies. Whatever discipline kept him mounted and controlled made him more unsettling than the panic around him—a single point of terrible stillness in the storm.

A hunter stumbled between us, breaking whatever spell had held me frozen. He swung wildly, and his sword clattered to the ground. He stared at his own hand like it belonged to someone else, fingers refusing to close.

The clearing descended into madness. Men fought invisible enemies. Horses bolted. The torches guttered and sparked, casting wild shadows that only added to the confusion.

And still those threads wove tighter, directed by unseen hands somewhere in the darkness beyond the firelight.

The grip on my arms had loosened completely now. My captor was too distracted by whatever phantom he was seeing. I wrenched free just as someone grabbed me from the other side.

The little girl. Her small hand fierce around my wrist, her eyes still blazing with that impossible starlight.

“Run. Now.”

I ran. Branches clawed at my sleeves. My breath came ragged in my chest. The forest blurred into streaks of green and shadow. The girl’s glowing threads flashing once, then gone.

“Wait!” I called, but my voice was swallowed by the wind. She’d vanished into the undergrowth, a flicker of light devoured by the dark.

I didn’t know where I was going. Only that I had to get away—from those men, from whatever power had caused those threads. The ground was uneven, slick with moss and roots that snaked like veins beneath the earth. My pulse hammered in my ears louder than the thunder building overhead.

A root caught my foot. Pain lanced up my leg as I stumbled forward. The world tilted.

I hit the ground hard, the air ripped from my lungs. My head slammed against something unyielding—stone, maybe. White light burst behind my eyes.

The last thing I saw before darkness took me was a faint shimmer in the trees. Threads of light, still burning, still waiting.

CHAPTER 4

AUGUST

We returned empty-handed. Twelve Weavers escaped into the night like smoke through our fingers, and all we had to show for it was Morrison's dislocated shoulder and Ashby’s self-inflicted blade wound. The others bore invisible injuries—pride, mostly, and the sharp sting of humiliation.

Father would be waiting.

My boots echoed against stone as we passed through the courtyard. Dawn was breaking over Oxford's spires, painting everything in shades of gold and amber—too beautiful for what was coming. The other hunters peeled away one by one, heading to the barracks or the infirmary, leaving me to face the Unraveler alone.

Except I wasn't alone.

“I'm coming with you,” Garrick said, falling into step beside me. His coat was torn at the shoulder, dirt smudged across his jaw, but that familiar defiance burned in his eyes.

“You needn’t⁠—”

“Yes, I must.” His voice dropped low enough that only I could hear. “When he asks what happened, you'll need someone to corroborate your account. Their attack this time was well planned out.”

He wasn't wrong. Weavers had used illusion magic before, making hunters see phantom enemies, turning allies against each other. Last night's attack was more coordinated than usual, but not unprecedented.