Page 73 of The Threads Between

The pendant surged—a demand now, not a warning.

Cold flooded through my chest, my arms, my throat. The corruption rose like water behind a cracking dam, looking for weakness, looking for cracks, hungry for the violence unfolding around us.

Let me out. So easy. Just open. Just let go.

My hands started to shake.

Because it would be easy. One moment of surrender. My Threadbreaker magic would sweep through the yard—but so would the corruption. The ones I was trying to protect would be erased.

No.

I shoved the corruption down with enough force that pain exploded behind my eyes. White-hot. Blinding.

But I held.

The nearest hunter was raising his rifle. Aimed at Marigold's back. She hadn't seen him—too focused on holding what was left of her shield. Too young to track threats from multiple directions at once.

He was going to kill her.

I moved. Pure physicality, hunter training drilled so deep it lived in my bones. Three strides. I closed the distance before he could fully aim and drove my shoulder into his ribs with enough force to lift him off his feet. His rifle discharged as we went down—shot cracking past my ear, heat scorching my skin. The ground slammed the breath from both of us.

He tried to bring the rifle around. I caught the barrel and twisted—felt bone crack in his wrist. He screamed. I wrenched the weapon free, swung it toward the second hunter already closing in, and squeezed the trigger.

Empty.

I reversed my grip and drove the rifle stock into his jaw. He staggered. I followed through—barrel across his temple, the impact jarring up my arms. He dropped.

The third hunter drew his sword.

They all carried them. Standard issue for close work with Weavers. Magic was unpredictable at range, but steel worked fine when you got close enough.

He lunged. I parried with the rifle barrel, the blade biting into wood. Splinters flew. Another strike—I caught it, barely, the stock cracking under the force.

One more hit and the rifle would be kindling.

I feinted left, ducked right, and drove my shoulder into his chest. We went down together. His sword arm hit dirt—I slammed my knee onto his wrist and wrenched the blade free. Now I was armed.

The pendant howled.

Corruption surged again, stronger this time, sensing my distraction. It found the cracks. Pushed. The edges of my vision started to grey, consciousness fraying at the seams as the pendant tried to scatter me again.

No. Hold. HOLD.

"August—left!"

Lily's voice cut through the chaos.

I twisted in time to see another hunter, rifle aimed directly at me.

Lily's hand moved. A flick of her wrist so precise it looked almost casual. Golden thread spun from her fingertips—thinner than spider silk, barely visible—and wrapped around the hunter's trigger finger with surgical precision.

The thread yanked.

His finger bent backward at an angle fingers weren't meant to bend. The rifle discharged into the ground as he screamed, the thread already dissolving, leaving no evidence it had ever existed except for his broken finger and the weapon clattering uselessly to the cobbles.

"Small," Lily said quietly, though her hands were shaking. "And precise. I can manage that much."

Another hunter charged from my blind side. I spun, bringing the sword up⁠—