Page 71 of The Threads Between

He did not rush. He emerged as though he had been part of the architecture all along, separating himself from brick and mist with deliberate ease.

I knew the stance before I knew the face. Morrison.

The fog lifted just enough to reveal him fully. Silver threaded through his beard. Lines carved deeper at the corners of his eyes. Eyes that no longer showed the kindness I had grown accustomed to over the years. His rifle rested casually on his shoulder.

From the opposite side of the yard, Ashby appeared between stacked barrels, his gaze already fixed on me. Four more hunters followed several paces behind them, younger and less composed, though their weapons were held steady.

They had not stumbled upon us. They had choreographed this.

Morrison inclined his head slightly, as if greeting an acquaintance rather than cornering prey.

"August," he said quietly. "It's been a while."

My throat tightened. "Morrison."

"Heard you were back among the living." His tone was conversational. Almost gentle. "Also heard you're still carrying that cursed thing around your neck."

The pendant pulsed as if responding to being named.

"It's not by choice," I said.

"No." Morrison's expression didn't change. "I suppose it never was."

The yard shifted as they moved forward. Every sightline had been chosen, every exit calculated, every distance measured. The openness had been a lie. The dead man at the crates. The convenient angles. The river cutting off our retreat. I had been taught to recognize this kind of setup. I had taught others. And I had walked us into it.

Morrison did not lift his rifle immediately. He did not need to. Ashby had already shifted two steps left, angling to cut off the river. The other hunters widened the formation, forcing us inward toward the warehouse wall.

"You taught me how to read a trap," I said quietly.

"I did." Something flickered across his face—not quite regret, not quite pride. "And you were always a good student."

Garrick stepped forward slightly, shoulders squared. "Morrison. Let us pass."

Morrison's gaze shifted to him. "Garrick Wolfe. Heard you've been busy. Burning opera houses. Harboring fugitives." He paused. "Helping traitors."

"Traitors," Garrick repeated flatly. "That what you're calling people who refuse to murder women now?"

"I'm calling you what you are." Morrison's voice hardened. "Men who turned their backs on their oaths. On their brothers. On everything we built."

"You built it on corpses," Garrick shot back.

"We built it on order." Morrison's hand shifted on his rifle—not raising it, just adjusting. "And you tore it down the moment you decided your conscience mattered more than your duty."

The pendant pulsed again. Harder this time. The corruption surged—reaching for the edges of my restored consciousness, testing the weaving Lily had done. Testing me.

I pushed back. Held firm. But it was getting harder to divide my focus between the threat in front of me and the one living under my skin.

"August killed Hayes," Morrison said, his voice dropping. "Slaughtered him like an animal. Then walked away like it meant nothing."

"Hayes was going to kill an innocent woman," I said quietly.

"Hayes was doing his job." Morrison's jaw tightened. "And you butchered him for it. Made his wife a widow. Because you decided your feelings about some Weaver mattered more than your oath."

I had not forgotten Hayes. Had not forgotten the look on his face when my sword pierced his heart. Had not forgotten that he'd had a family waiting at home who would never understand why he didn't return.

"I chose differently," I said. "That's all."

"No." Morrison's voice went cold. "You chose wrong. And now I'm here to finish it."