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I pulled my magic back with an effort that left me shaking, and forced myself to breathe.
But I couldn’t stop looking at him.
He stood perfectly still while his father described him like a weapon to be admired. “Three months ago, my son’s controlled power swept through Oxford and eliminated fifty-seven magical threats in a single night. Tonight, he will demonstrate that same capability with perfect precision.”
August didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, empty, waiting to be used.
I’m here. I’m coming for you. Just hold on a little longer.
The ghost-thread pulsed once. Whether it reached him, I couldn’t tell.
Elias brought out the woman—the Weaver. Middle-aged, dignified even in chains. My chest tightened. Adeline would move during the chaos, get her out while—
The curtain opened again.
Four more women. Dragged out and positioned at the corners of the stage.
Five.
My stomach dropped.
The plan was for one. One woman during chaos. But five spread across the stage, each guarded by hunters—
I looked toward where Adeline's shoulders stiffened. She’d felt it too. The impossibility of what we were being asked to adapt to.
One barely looked eighteen, her chin lifted in defiance even as tears streaked her face. One was visibly pregnant, hands cradling her belly. One was old enough to be someone’s grandmother, with white hair escaping its pins. And one—the one in the center—had started to cry.
“My children,” she said. “Thomas and Mary—please, they’re only—“
One of the hunters struck her shoulder. “Quiet.”
The crowd murmured. Not in horror. In approval.
“About time,” someone said behind me. “These creatures have hidden long enough.”
A woman’s voice, cultured and cold. “Think of the innocent people she might have corrupted.”
Applause. Nods of agreement. Three hundred people had come to watch this. Had dressed in silk and jewels to witness righteousness in action.
A few faces faltered. Most leaned in.
My hands were shaking again. I didn’t bother to still them.
Five, I thought. Not one. Five women who will die if we fail.
But the plan stayed the same. It had to. Create chaos. Suppress the pendant. Get August. Get everyone out alive.
In the front row, Beatrice shifted. It was subtle—a straightening of the spine, a settling of the shoulders. The air went thick with stirred magic.
The suppression was beginning.
On stage, August’s posture flickered. Just for a heartbeat. A crack in the emptiness.
The ghost-thread flared hot between us—recognition, proximity, need. And this time, I didn’t pull back.
Somewhere backstage, Garrick would be moving. Lamp oil and matches. A carefully controlled fire that would send three hundred people fleeing into the night—and give us the cover we needed to take August and disappear into that same chaos.
My hands gripped the armrests.
