Page 7

“Sit,” she said quietly.

I hesitated. Then lowered myself beside her, my legs folding beneath me, exhaustion pulling at my limbs.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The lamps hissed softly. Somewhere above us, floorboards creaked as someone moved through the house.

Then Syra spoke. “Ysella used to tell me I was born angry.”

She stared at the far wall, her expression unreadable.

“She wasn’t wrong.” A faint, humorless smile touched her mouth. “Even as a child, I was furious. At everything. At the world for hating what we were. At my own magic for marking me different.” Her jaw tightened. “I thought I was broken.”

She drew her knees up, arms wrapping around them. She looked younger, more vulnerable than I’d ever seen her.

“Ysella said some people are born to carry weight. Not because they’re stronger. Not because they asked for it. But because the universe looked at them and decided—this one. This one will have iron in their spine and a tempered will, and both will be tested.”

Her eyes flicked to mine.

“She said those people will face trials again and again. Be broken in ways that should destroy them. They’ll bleed and they’ll fall and they’ll want to give up.”

The cellar pressed close. Like the world had stopped to listen.

“Maybe it’s not the life they would have chosen. Maybe they’d love to be soft. To be safe. To unclench their fists and know, just once, that nothing is coming for them.”

One of the lamps guttered, and the shadows on Syra's face rearranged. The shine in her eyes caught the light.

“But they can’t, because fighting is in their bones. It’s all they know. What they were made for.” Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “That’s all they have left.”

She wasn't looking at me anymore. She was looking at the wall, at something decades behind it.

My throat tightened.

“I miss her,” I whispered. “Miya. My sister. She was six when she died. And some days I can barely remember her face. Can barely remember the sound of her laugh.” Tears spilled hot and fast. “But I remember that I couldn’t save her. I remember surviving when she didn’t.”

My breath fractured.

“Marigold reminds me of her sometimes. The way she looks at me when she’s scared but trying not to show it. The way she holds my hand like I can fix things.” I pressed my palms to my eyes, but it didn’t stop the tears. “Miya used to do that. Right up until the end.”

“Lily—”

“And now August is out there, being used as a weapon, and I’m down here failing to mend practice threads.” My voice cracked. “I didn’t choose this. I didn’t choose any of it.”

“I know,” Syra said softly.

“But I can’t have that.” My voice shook. “Because I’m the only one who can reverse an unraveling. And if I fail—if I’m not strong enough—people will die. He’ll die. Or worse than dying. He’ll keep being used to destroy everything he tried to protect.”

The weight of it settled into the place where breath should have been.

“So no,” I said raggedly. “I don’t want to try again. I want to stop. I want to rest. I want someone else to carry this for a while.”

Syra was quiet for a long moment. Then she did something I didn’t expect.

She took my hand.

Her fingers were cold, calloused from years of survival.

“I spent twenty-seven years watching Ysella fight,” she said. “Watching her carry the weight of keeping Weavers safe while Elias’s Hunters closed in.” Her voice cracked. “Some days she looked hollow. But she got up anyway.”

Syra’s thumb brushed over my knuckles.