Page 11 of Thorn Season (Thorn Season #1)

I paced between the curved walls, my skirts dragging dirt toward my heels. With each turn, my hatred for Briar Capewell grew.

Not only had she failed to conceal the Capewells’ service to the Crown—a secret her ancestors had kept for two centuries—but the wretched woman couldn’t even be content with executing my people. She had to steal from them, too.

And now these Wielders had entangled Father in her mess.

My specter throbbed, and I let it stream in ribbons around me to ease the internal strain.

Keil was wrong about Father. I stood a better chance of accessing Capewell Manor, and only because Garret had once sneaked me inside himself.

We’d been children—aged eight and ten—with a brash, heroic plan to steal the Hunters’ compass and protect Daradon’s Wielders from exposure.

We made a game of it—pouring tar across the corridors, stringing twine between the walls to trip pursuers.

We’d just reached Wray Capewell’s office when Briar caught us snooping through her brother’s belongings.

It should’ve been funny—her tar-squelching shoeprints, her blotchy anger. But suddenly, nothing about this was funny. Garret was braver than me, was actually opening his mouth to laugh.

Then Briar struck him so hard that he bit his own tongue.

I shrieked as her arm rose a second time—and Briar found the sound so aggravating that she whipped her hand across my face instead. I sobbed while she smiled down at me. Her hand lifted again, slowly, its shadow looming over me before the release.

And Garret’s eyes took on a dark glimmer.

He pounced upon her back, took a fistful of her hair, and pulled.

Tearing and biting and punching, he fought her, like a wild canine having broken out of its cage.

Briar was bleeding, too, as she dealt him three more blows.

Then we fled—back into the booby-trapped hallways and out through the manor’s escape tunnel.

I told Father we’d tripped down the mosaic steps in town, and spent the evening pressing a cool cloth to Garret’s bruises.

I won’t let her turn me into a Hunter , he’d said that night, battered and proud. I don’t care what she does to me. She can’t make me become like her.

And for the first time, I’d imagined my life sprawling out beside his. I’d been too young to name or understand the feeling; I’d only known that Garret felt like home.

Then, three years later, Garret’s adoptive father, Wray, had died. And at thirteen, Garret had been orphaned all over again.

I begged Father to take in Garret as his ward—to stop Briar digging her claws into him. But by the time Father relented and I summoned Garret to deliver the news, it was too late. My specter rushed out to meet him, flickering fast with my excitement.

And Garret recoiled from it. Stepped back.

A locked bracelet glinted at his wrist.

Put your dirty specter on me again , he’d said in a voice that was no longer his own, and I’ll cut through it, Wielder.

He could have hit me in that moment, and it would’ve hurt less.

That quickly, my world had shifted. And I never put my specter on him again.

The wisps of power slid back to me now, quieted by the memories. Garret had fought for me tonight—had acted as the boy he’d been rather than the man he’d become.

I was still considering what that meant when a knock jolted me from my reverie.

A knock . As if this cell were a dressing room and I was busy primping myself.

The door opened and I tensed. Though I could only see the man’s dark eyes framed by deep brown skin, I recognized his lean build.

Dashiel. The one who’d raised his hand to me in the parlor.

He approached, arm lifting again, and I inhaled sharply—

Then he stopped, one palm held up and facing out. Just as he’d held it in the parlor.

A retrospective lens slipped over the memory, bathing it in a new light. Dashiel hadn’t raised his palm to strike me. In the chaos of my kidnapping, he’d shown his open palm in reassurance—to signal peace .

He must have seen my dread melting, because he now gestured to the door. “This way, my lady.”

I tentatively approached, and a swoosh sounded from behind. I jumped as the cloak billowed from the chair and deflated around Dashiel’s arm.

He held it forward. “You may get cold.”

I stared wide-eyed, my specter humming at the display. Such free, careless Wielding—from all of them. How had this kingdom not beaten the impulse out of them?

How had it never gotten them killed ?

“I’ll be fine,” I said shakily, and Dashiel led me away.

He slowed to accommodate my footwear, even offering his arm when the tunnels darkened. Then we approached a wooden ladder, and I bundled my skirts. Dashiel had the good grace to turn his head while I climbed.

The night-fresh air blasted hair into my eyes, so I wasn’t prepared when warm hands encircled my waist to hoist me up. I gasped, automatically grabbing on to strong shoulders for purchase. I didn’t let go until Keil—now masked and hooded—set me gently to my feet.

“My lady,” he said in soft greeting, making sure I was steady before stepping back.

I skewered him with a glare he didn’t return. He held my gaze a moment longer, infuriatingly calm, then turned toward a tree-lined path, ground lanterns spilling light across his boots.

A field sprawled around us, long grass combed to one side under the current of wind.

Seated under a dip of grassland and tangled with shoots, the tunnel opening could’ve led to the burrow of a large animal.

I was watching Dashiel emerge from it when a stronger wind ruffled my sleeves, carrying a familiar sour-noted fragrance.

My eyes darted to the trees. In darkness, the blossoms seemed pale as parchment. But come morning, they would glisten like fallen stars.

“We’re still in Vereen,” I said, half-dazed. Penny blossom trees were native to my province, where craftspeople crushed their silver petals into shimmering dyes.

Dashiel nodded, brushing off his trousers. “You know your land well.”

I looked back toward the tunnel entry with new understanding. Of course these Wielders had stationed themselves here.

Vereen’s underground hosted a wealth of ancient xerylite mines, many of which had been used as strongholds during the Starling Rebellion.

While the coordinates had since been stricken from public files—with only my father holding the records—the tunnels had remained an emblem of defiance. Of Wielders, fighting back.

And apparently, their locations weren’t forgotten.

I inched toward the entry, curiosity rousing my specter.

“Stay there,” Goren barked, with the sternness of someone setting a naughty child on a countertop. I stumbled, not realizing how close he’d been standing. Or that he’d been glowering at me, biceps bulging as he scraped his ash-brown hair into a topknot.

I took another backstep. Keil may not punish innocents for their lineage, but Goren had made no such promises. And right now, the Hunters’ blood felt heavier—more dangerous—than the specter under my skin.

“You won’t be harmed, my lady.” Dashiel shot Goren a disapproving look.

Goren grunted, snapping his hood down.

The grass rustled, and I turned to see the blond man swaggering toward us, twirling a throwing knife between quick fingers. “Hello, lockpicker.” His bright green eyes betrayed a wicked smile. “I’m Lye. Lysander, really, but I don’t expect anyone to bother with that many syllables.”

“This isn’t a dinner party,” said Goren.

“It’s not? Huh. That explains the lack of appetizers.”

“Get in position.”

“Oh, don’t be grouchy in front of the lady.” Lye sheathed the knife through his bandolier. “You’re the one who said we didn’t need to guard the door.”

“And what would you have done if you’d caught her escaping? Offered her a map?”

“If she asked nicely.” Lye threw me another eye-crinkling grin. “Good thing you didn’t see me walking around without a mask. People have been known to swoon.”

“ Get in position ,” Goren growled again.

Lye rolled his eyes and wedged between us. He leaned down, voice low with mischief. “I’ve never picked a lock with hairpins. Who taught you?”

I was spared from having to answer as footfalls thumped toward us.

“Rider sighted,” Osana panted, slowing to a jog. “Prepare for conflict.”

My stomach lurched. “Wait. Conflict— ”

“Armed?” Keil asked.

Her eyes flicked to me and hardened. “Armed,” she confirmed.

A beat of silence. Then the Wielders snapped into fighting stances, eyes forward and feet apart. Lye’s throwing knives whistled from their sheaths; Keil moved to my other side. I bustled against them, hemmed in.

“ Wait ,” I said, blood rushing. “My father wouldn’t be armed. She’s made a mistake.”

Osana shot me a murderous look, fingers twitching toward her dagger.

“Easy,” Keil murmured, gaze fixed on the path.

“You have to listen to me,” I pressed. “My father is not a threat—”

Wheels clacked on the path, silencing me.

Steel flashed as Goren flipped his axe. “We strike first?”

“No!” I said. I would fight these Wielders to protect my father, but gods— oh, gods —I desperately didn’t want to.

Keil looked down at me—a brief, broad assessment—then frowned back at the path. “Let him show his hand. We retaliate if we must.” He added, with a glance at Lye, “Keep her out of the crossfire.”

Lye nodded, and I was caught halfway between relief and alarm—there was going to be crossfire?!—when an enclosed wagon rolled into view, and the air hitched in my throat.

Because riding at its seat was not Father.

It was Garret.