Page 46 of The Threads Between

We ran as ceiling sections crashed behind us.

We burst into the cold February air. The street was chaos. Hundreds of people milling, screaming, watching the opera house burn. Smoke poured into the night sky.

“Mira!” Garrick scanned the crowd. “Beatrice!”

There—near a carriage. Mira was trying to get Beatrice inside but she was leaning heavily.

We stumbled toward them. Garrick lowered Adeline carefully into the carriage.

“She won’t wake properly,” Mira said, voice breaking as she looked at Beatrice. “The suppression took too much.”

“Move your arses!”

I turned.

Syra emerged from an alley, dragging a vacant August.

For a moment, I couldn’t process what I was seeing. She was supposed to be in a carriage. Holding glamours. Safe.

But here she was—face grey, legs shaking with every step, August’s weight draped over her shoulders. Each movement looked like her last.

“Service entrance,” she gasped out. The words came uneven, like she was rationing breath. “Was trying to get in—when the suppression broke—felt it—“ Her legs buckled half an inch before she caught them. “Met Elias coming out. Had August.”

Her mouth curved into something that might have been a smile if she'd had the strength.

“Hit him with a brick.”

She'd intercepted them. When Elias fled the burning building with his weapon, Syra had been right there—trying to get in while he was getting out. And she'd done the only thing she could. Found a loose brick and cracked it across his skull.

“Dragged August out while he was down.”

Garrick was already running, taking August’s weight, heaving him over his shoulders. Between him and Mira, they managed to get everyone situated. Beatrice still woozy on one bench. Adeline beside her, cradling her burned hands. August slumped against the opposite seat, eyes empty, pendant still glowing cold at his chest.

Syra stumbled to the carriage and caught herself on the door, gasping. But there was relief in her eyes.

“Took you long enough,” she managed.

She’d done it. Somehow, impossibly, she’d done it.

We had him. Despite everything going wrong—despite the five Weavers, despite the fire spreading too fast, despite Beatrice's suppression shattering—we had August.

Garrick jumped up to take the reins. “We have to leave. Now.”

I reached for Syra’s arm. “Come on. Get in.”

Movement in the alley behind her caught my eye.

A hunter emerged from the shadows, following the path Syra had taken.

Time slowed.

The hunter's arm came up, gun gleaming in the firelight. Syra leaned against the carriage, body sagging with exhaustion, every muscle screaming from dragging August to safety. She couldn't run. Could barely stand.

My face must have shown it—the horror, the recognition. Her eyes tracked from my face to the alley. To the hunter. To the pistol leveled at her back.

Recognition flashed across her features—not fear, just acknowledgement. This is how it ends.

Her eyes met mine.