Page 119 of The Threads Between

August went still. The bond frosted over.

“Where is he?” August's voice was flat. Hard.

Morrison's smile widened.

“You thought he'd be here? Waiting for you like some villain in a penny dreadful?” He laughed, a short, contemptuous sound. “He raised you better than that, boy. Though clearly the lesson didn't take.”

“Where. Is. He.” August's eyes were fully gold now, his Threadbreaker magic burning bright.

“The estate.” Morrison said. “He's been there all along, waiting. Where it all began.”

August went cold. I caught it instantly, ice flooding where warmth had been.

The place where his mother had died. Where she had attempted forbidden magic to save her people and accidentally created the corruption that would destroy her family.

“This was never the target,” I said. The realization was ice in my veins. “The Iron Spire was bait. He wanted us to commit our forces here.”

“Clever girl.” Morrison's gaze found me for the first time. Something flickered in his expression, recognition, perhaps, or curiosity. He tilted his head. “Elias is very interested in meeting you properly.”

Morrison's hand moved beneath the desk. The revolver came up fast, a hunter's reflexes, the barrel leveling at August's chest.

August didn't flinch. His magic detonated outward in a wave of gold, and the revolver came apart in Morrison's grip. The barrel separated from the cylinder, the cylinder from the frame, screws and springs scattering across the mahogany like spilled coins. Morrison stared at the grip still in his hand, the only piece left intact.

August crossed the distance in three strides and caught him by the throat. Lifted him. Morrison's feet left the ground.

“You helped make me into a weapon,” August said quietly. His voice was worse than shouting. “You stood beside my father and watched him destroy me piece by piece.” His grip tightened. “Give me one reason I shouldn't unmake every thread holding you together.”

Morrison's face was turning red, but he managed a strangled laugh.

“Because . . . you're not . . . your father.”

August held him for a long moment. The war inside him bled into me, the rage, the grief, the desperate temptation to become exactly what his father had always wanted him to be.

Then he let go.

Morrison collapsed, gasping.

“No,” August said. “I am not.”

He turned and strode out of the study without looking back. We followed, taking the stairs two at a time, the sounds of battle growing louder with every flight.

The main hall was a flood of black and gold. Beth's group had breached the main doors. Hunters falling back, women pressing forward, the clash of steel against light filling the air with sound and fury. The smell of smoke and sweat and blood, the acrid bite of gunpowder, the strange ozone tang of magic being used in anger.

Mira strode through the chaos like she had been born for it. A hunter charged her with a blade raised high, and she didn't flinch. Her hand shot out, gold threads spinning from her fingers, and she twisted. Not healing but counter-Mending. The strength in his leg gave way. He collapsed mid-stride, blade clattering from fingers that had forgotten how to grip.

Ruth's illusions continued their work, phantom Weavers multiplying and vanishing, drawing fire into empty air, confusing aim. One hunter swung his blade through an image of Beatrice, and the real Beatrice stepped up behind him and bound his hands before he could recover.

We were winning. The hunters were falling back toward the grand staircase. The hall was nearly ours.

Beth crossed the hall to meet us, her face grim and splattered with someone else's blood.

“Elias isn't here,” August said. “He's at the estate. The Spire was bait.”

Beth's expression didn't change. She absorbed it the way soldiers absorbed bad news, filing it, adapting.

“Take who you need,” she said. “We'll hold here and free anyone in the cells below.”

Esther stepped forward. “I'm coming⁠—“