Chapter 19
Lochlan
“AN UPTICK IN STRAY CATS - WHAT TO DO.” —THE STELLA RUNE GAZETTE
Lochlan woke to the insistent smack of a paw against his cheek.
A feline menace, sleek and smug, sat perched on his chest. The glowing green eyes of one of Stella Rune’s delivery beasts locked on his, seeming to say get up.
It smacked him again. With a soft groan, Lochlan retrieved the scroll that dangled from its gold collar, sealed with the unmistakable sigil of the archives. “You couldn’t have waited an hour?” he muttered.
The cat snorted—a sound he was fairly certain wasn’t natural—and leapt off the bed, disappearing into the shadows.
Lochlan glanced down at Nia. She was still asleep, her face soft and a small smile on her lips. He hated leaving, but he had to see what the summons was about. Sliding carefully out of her embrace and the covers, he broke the scroll’s seal and unrolled it.
The message was brief, but urgent: an ancient tome had arrived at the Videt in a state of rapid decay. If he didn’t come immediately, centuries of history could be lost forever.
Sighing, he dressed quickly in a dark sweater and jeans, moving quietly around the room. In the kitchen, he made coffee, pouring it into a metal travel mug and leaving it on the counter with a note:
For whenever you wake up.
Sliding his bag over his shoulder, Lochlan stepped outside and rounded the corner, heading toward one of the discreet entrances to the tunnels beneath Stella Rune.
He hated the tunnels.
The cold, unyielding stone reminded him too much of Dover—the places he’d been forced to hide, the narrow spaces he’d sought out and run to, just to get away from his sister.
She had been cruel, whispering barbs where no one else could hear: No one wants you.
Your dad was happy to die just to get away from you.
You’ll never be one of us. When no one was looking, she’d poked him.
Pinched him. Kicked him. And when he’d tried to speak up, he had been the one scolded—called a liar, an attention-seeker.
So he had kept his distance, hiding in the greenhouse or locking himself in his room, the only two places that felt safe.
Until she took the greenhouse away from him, too.
The hidden shops and cafés run by supernaturals along some stretches of the tunnels brought a touch of life to the dank space, but it wasn’t enough to distract Lochlan from the memories that haunted him.
Still, the tunnels were the most efficient way to reach the Videt.
A pair of witches passed by, arms linked, their laughter echoing off the stone as they ducked into the messenger-cat office, its window filled with felines of various sizes and colors snoozing peacefully.
Nearby, a troll hummed softly from his perch outside a barbershop, patiently waiting his turn while, inside, a rune-carved razor floated steadily along a customer’s jaw.
The Videt soon came into view: its imposing, carved facade loomed up, a testament to centuries of history.
The entrance opened into a grand, arched corridor that led into the archives—a labyrinth of knowledge, meticulously organized and enchanted to preserve its trove. The Videt archives were a reflection of Lochlan’s work, and of his solitude. They suited him.
Or, had suited him.
After the brightness of Nia’s company, he wasn’t so sure anymore.
Lochlan made his way through the entrance hall and down to the heavily secured chamber that housed the oldest and most fragile artifacts. The temperature dropped noticeably as he stepped inside, a chill that seeped into his bones.
“Speaking of old things,” he muttered under his breath as his gaze landed on Wulfric, who stood like a sentinel in the center of the room.
“How could you?”
Lochlan froze, at once wary and exasperated. “I assume there’s not actually a tome that needs my immediate attention?”
“And I assume you care more about your precious work than my daughter,” Wulfric shot back, scathing.
Lochlan’s mind raced, replaying every moment he and Nia had shared, searching for anything that could’ve justified Wulfric’s words. Nothing came to mind.
“What are you talking about?”
“I found my daughter sleeping on your couch last night,” Wulfric snapped, his voice echoing off the chamber’s cold walls.
“What?” Lochlan blinked, completely thrown. “When?”
“What does it matter?” Wulfric growled. “I trusted you, thought you were the one she needed!”
“Maybe I am.” Lochlan squared his shoulders. “But that decision isn’t yours to make.”
Wulfric narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping into cool calculation. “I know my daughter. I know you. This will benefit you both—if you weren’t intent on ruining it.”
Lochlan’s temper flared. “If you’re not careful, Wulfric, you’ll be the one who ruins it.”
He scoffed, turning abruptly and pacing a few steps away. “Is she well?”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Lochlan said, his tone harsher than he intended.
Wulfric’s answer was surprisingly subdued. “She wouldn’t tell me.”
Lochlan couldn’t blame her. But, despite his own frustration, he could see the genuine concern in Wulfric’s face. “She wasn’t sleeping on my couch,” he explained. “She fell asleep there while I was showering. I carried her to bed, and that’s where she was when I left her this morning.”
Wulfric’s posture softened with relief. “Does she love you yet?”
The question landed like a blow. Lochlan blinked. “Of course not,” he said, quietly. “It’s been less than two weeks.”
“Do you love her?”
The silence that followed felt as oppressive as the stone walls around them. What could Lochlan say? He cared for her deeply. Immensely. But love?
He didn’t know.
Whatever he felt for Nia was real, and he wasn’t ready to let go of it. But that wasn’t for Wulfric to dictate.
The Sword tilted his head, studying Lochlan for a long moment. “Right,” he said, his tone unreadable. “I see.”
Lochlan opened his mouth to respond, but something brushed the edge of his thoughts—a faint, unwelcome intrusion, like fingers pressing between his brain and skull.
“Get out of my head,” Lochlan growled.
“Let me help you,” Wulfric insisted, calmly.
“No,” Lochlan shot back.
Wulfric’s expression darkened, his patience wearing thin. “You have a month.” The words sliced through the quiet room like a blade. “If she doesn’t choose you by then, you’re done here. And I’ll make sure you’re done everywhere. Stella Rune, the Videt—all of it.”
The threat struck Lochlan’s chest like a physical blow.
Wulfric had always been calculating, but never this ruthless or blatant. Lochlan had heard the stories, of course—the way The Sword dealt with obstacles, the quiet but undeniable force he exerted over those who crossed him. But seeing it, feeling it directed at him, was something else entirely.
Lochlan forced himself to breathe, to control the anger building in his gut. “What do you really want from this?” he asked, his voice measured. “Why me?”
Wulfric’s expression remained unreadable. “Finish the diaries,” he said simply. “You’ll find out.”
Lochlan stiffened.
His current at-home project was a set of diaries sent from the Videt. This was nothing unusual. He received assignments like that all the time. Inventory: Set of diaries from a since-passed witch. Damage: Unknown. Restoration Status: Important.
Sometimes, Wulfric took a hands-on approach, not to help, but to hover.
If a particular book or scroll mattered to him, he would check in, ask for updates, and make his presence known.
But not with these. They had arrived with nothing but the standard paperwork, slipped in among other restoration jobs, like they were just another project.
Wulfric had never mentioned an interest in them until now.
“What does that even mean?” Lochlan’s fists clenched at his sides. “And if you get rid of me, who exactly is going to repair your precious books?”
Something flickered in Wulfric’s gaze. Not anger, or even irritation. Pride.
“There’s a lot on the line,” he admitted, regaining some of his usual composure. “Your second dinner is Sunday. And I expect you both at the full moon celebration.”
With that, Wulfric turned and strode out of the chamber, his footsteps ringing in the empty space, each one a reminder of the ultimatum he’d just laid down.