Page 64 of The Threads Between

“I’m here,” I said quietly. “I am here because of you.”

She stared at me as if I were impossible. Her eyes searched my face, waiting for the trick, the collapse, the proof I was really there.

Then she moved.

Her arms wrapped around my neck, and she began to sob. Her body shaking against mine as though something inside her had finally given way. I gathered her close, pressing my cheek into her hair, feeling the damp heat of her tears through my shirt.

And I could hold her.

That was the thing I could not stop marveling at. For three months, I had been aware—trapped behind glass, screaming without sound—and she had been there. Through the thread, through the bond, I had known she was near. Had sensed her grief. Her determination. Her refusal to surrender me even when everyone else had.

And I had not been able to move a single finger to reach her.

Now my arms worked. My hands worked. I could press my palm against her spine and feel the architecture of her breathing. I could turn my head and breathe in the scent of her hair—roses, and magic burned too hot. I could tighten my grip and know that she would feel it.

I was no longer a corpse.

I was alive.

“I thought—“ Her words fractured against my shoulder. “I thought it didn’t work. I thought you were gone.”

“It held long enough.” I drew back only far enough to see her face, to make certain she understood. “You gave me the pieces to do it. Three months apart. Three months of you refusing to surrender me. I found my way back because you would not let me be lost.”

She exhaled like she'd been holding it for months. But the shadows under her eyes didn't lift, and her gaze held something that hadn't been there before—still, quiet, hard-won.

“But the necklace,” she whispered. “The binding.”

“It remains.” I pressed my hand against my chest where the pendant rested cold against my skin. “You wove my consciousness back together. You saved me from scattering entirely. But the corruption still runs through it. Without completing the bond—without giving my magic a channel that does not pass through my father’s design—it will tear me apart again. Or at least that is what Beatrice says.”

Her color drained.

“How long?”

“Days,” I said, forcing myself not to soften it. “Perhaps fewer. It will happen faster this time. The corruption knows I am resisting it.”

She did not look away from me. “Then we make it impossible for it to take you.”

“You burned through your magic yesterday.”

“Then we find another way.” There was steel in her voice now. “We do not have the luxury of weakness.”

“Mira has been healing you since you collapsed,” I said more gently. “Every hour. She believes if you rest, your magic will recover enough within a day. Two at most.”

The pendant pulsed beneath my palm as if it resented the conversation. I pushed back instinctively against the pull, feeling the corruption test the edges of my restored mind.

Could I hold for two days?

I would have to.

Lily saw the calculation in my expression. “How bad is it?”

“Manageable,” I answered. It was not quite a lie. “For now.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough, but we cannot remain here. My father will not cease until he reclaims what he believes is his.”

“He will not have you back.” Her hand rose to my face, fingers trembling but certain. “You are not his weapon. You are not his design.”