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I scan the destroyed dome above. Lucas could use his threads to launch through like the birds who escaped. Providing him with a distraction will be easy enough. Then I could focus on staying alive until Emilia comes for me.

And if I fail, I’ll at least be able to take out as many of these betrayers as possible so my loved ones will survive.

My gaze flicks from Lucas to where the birds escaped the dome before whispering urgently, “Run.”

Lucas’ jaw sets, and my heart seizes. “I will not abandon you.”

I suck in breath, eyes widening. “Idiot! Get out while you can.”

But his hesitation and my inability to sway him are our downfall. The window of opportunity closes as magic surges around, closing off the dome. We have no choice. We’ll survive this together. My power rips forth, my glowing eyes highlighting the masks around us in cerulean blue as the weavers rush forward. Lucas leans against my back, blood spraying as he cleaves through shields, a severed hand flying through the air in my periphery as I block deadly magic arcing towards us.

But then Lucas’ cry of pain splinters my focus. I turn back, fear stinging me with its icy grip. Blood drips from his fingers as he falls to one knee. Alasdair stares darkly at me, one hand splayed against Lucas’ chest. The whites of the accursed creature’s eyes flash black and he smirks cruelly.

Snarling and crackling with power, I lift my arm to strike the monster down, but something cold snaps around my raised wrist.

Then everything happens too fast. My magic dies in my hand, and I whip to the side to behold the iron manacle. My other arm is grabbed, yanking me off balance. My knees slam into the unforgiving ground and the other manacle binds my wrists together behind my back. A fist in my hair yanks my head back. Something cold snaps around my mouth, my eyes widening. A muzzle.

A foul smell fills the air as the iron sears my mouth. My Soul Thread writhes, sizzling until there is nothing in my chest except for my pulsing heart. I gag, panic flooding my senses. I thrash against the bindings, but I only manage to further wreck my shoulder when the magic covering my healing wound wisps away. Blood drips down my back, and my vision flashes with the pulsing agony.

Lucas is yelling for me, and I barely have the strength to lift my head in his direction. I’m grabbed and forced to stand. As I’m dragged out, I groan, my teeth grinding together. I can’t speak to tell them that my shoulder blade is fractured, but it doesn’t matter. They wouldn’t care. My blurred vision fills with spots, and I gag. Fuck, don’t throw up. I was declared “optional.” A deadly enemy too risky to keep alive if too difficult to subdue. They would let me drown in my own sick to appease Alasdair.

Astoria lived this hellish existence for three days as an eighteen-year-old child. How she kept her sanity is beyond me. I close my eyes and permit myself to fall into this torturous existence. No wonder she cursed us all. My beloved. I’m sorry for not seeing it sooner. If we survive this, I’ll beg on my knees for your forgiveness.

I’m jolted from my misery when tossed onto the hard ground, the stone biting into my knees. I barely catch myself from collapsing. Staying upright and enduring the pain is far better than struggling to get back up with a wrecked shoulder and arms bound behind me.

Lucas is thrown to the floor beside me. He’s not gagged, but his arms are bound behind his back. Iron gauntlets encase both of his hands and connect with a thick chain. Our eyes meet. He searches my face with an air of desperation, but I ache too much to do much more than stare back at him.

Alasdair strolls between us, breaking our eye contact. He ascends the few steps onto the dais where the Archweaver lounges in his throne. Alasdair takes his place on the right side of it, his hands sliding into his pockets as he faces us.

Low and raspy, as if he’s aged a century since we last saw him, Atticus’ voice drifts across the room. “Well done, son.”

Alasdair croons, “Of course, Papa.”

Luciana ascends and stands beside her son. Her painted mask is poorly done in comparison to how it looked the last time I was here. Her corset has cracked gems but still glitters with enchantments. She places her clawed hand on Alasdair’s arm, tightening in a white-knuckled grip.

The Archweaver doesn’t stand, and if I could think past the throbbing pain, I’d wonder why. At least I can see a little better as I adjust to not having magic pumping through my veins.

“You break into my home… you destroy this sacred abode…” He wheezes and clears his throat. “For your crimes against the Order, I declare both⁠—”

Alasdair’s hand claps down on his father’s shoulder, nearly sending the old man off his chair. “Forgive me, but you can’t execute the magician. You see, I’ve already sold him to a new friend.” Alasdair raises his hand and snaps his fingers.

The front doors screech open. Darkness stretches out beyond the front steps. A green glint like a stalking predator’s eyes reflects, and my breath catches. The edges of a massive, hulking thing are barely visible without the magic within my eyes. I wait with held breath to witness this new beastly horror of Alasdair’s.

The creature steps into the open door’s flooding light, and my heart drops. The collective gasp and murmuring signal that I’m not the only one scandalized by this alliance, though I’m sure for very different reasons.

The Amur strolls inside the sacred doors to the Archweaver’s receiving hall with the Guild following close behind. His brown hair is slicked back, his grin wide within his neatly trimmed beard. His finely made suit pairs well with a fur-trimmed coat draped over his shoulders. It makes the enormous human even larger, to tower over the others.

Alasdair’s friendly response sends prickles down my spine. “You’re just on time. As I promised, for your assistance, I have your prize.”

My head snaps towards Lucas. He’s pale, panting.

Atticus’ voice trembles. “Alasdair… What have you done?”

“Save your strength, Papa. I have everything under control,” Alasdair says as one would to an elderly relative on their sickbed. Then he throws his voice for Dimitar to hear. “Go ahead, Dimitar. Show my father what we’ve accomplished. Bring forth my gift to him.”

Dimitar’s grin grows, his yellow eyes glinting. “Of course. As promised, we retrieved her and kept her safe until you were ready.”

Dimitar sweeps his arm to the side. The magicians part, and my breath catches. The stolen statue of the Archweaver Antonia rolls in on a platform. As the wheels pass the doorway, the illusion shimmers away to reveal Astoria’s broken and screaming form, her chest ripped open just like Alasdair’s shadow Dimitar did to me in Lucas’ memory.