Chapter Nine
Connor
Snow had begun to fall again, thin, drifting flakes that caught in the lantern light outside The Dry Pig .
Connor hated the quiet that came with the snowflakes.
Too soft for a day like this. Too deceptive.
The valley had been humming all morning, a pulse beneath the earth as though something enormous had rolled over in its sleep.
The path to the village had changed. Not in any way Connor could point to and prove. There were no new stones laid, and no signposts hammered in. But the air felt different as they walked. Less like a storm held in its own throat. More like a place that had decided, cautiously, to keep breathing.
Fraser moved beside him with that steady, predatory quiet Connor had come to respect. The man didn’t waste motion or words. He simply existed with the kind of competence that made Connor’s instincts ease, even if Connor would never admit it out loud.
Laird trailed half a step behind, eyes wide, taking in everything as if he was afraid the world might vanish if he blinked.
He had insisted on coming along to see the village, and Connor had decided it was time.
More of his clan were clamouring to come here, and he wanted to ensure it was still safe for them.
Also, he was anxious for his meeting with Xiathen, eager to see what new chaos was waiting in the wings today.
And, of course, Adrian would be there.
The village still sat in the Highlands, a secret dragged into daylight.
Stone cottages. Narrow lanes. Smoke rising from chimneys, as if it had always belonged here.
Yet every time Connor saw it, something in his gut tightened, as if the land itself was holding its breath around it.
They reached the first row of houses, and Connor slowed. No panic today. No crowds spilling into the street with terror in their eyes. No frantic questions. No children crying.
Instead, there were open doors.
A child chased a dog. No, not a dog, Connor realised with a jolt. Something that looked like a dog until it moved weirdly, as if smoke had learned to run.
Fraser’s gaze tracked it, his expression unreadable.
The townspeople moved with purpose. A woman carried a basket of bread. Two men repaired a fence with the calm rhythm of work.
“Everything seems so normal today,” Laird said.
Connor’s mouth twisted. “Being here should show you, normal is relative. And saying what’s happened here isn’t normal is insulting, Laird. Who defines normal?”
Laird’s fair face flushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”
But it was true. The village felt steadier. As if it had found its footing in this world. Or decided it liked the freedom of it.
A figure stepped out from a doorway ahead, and Connor’s hand went instinctively toward the knife at his belt.
The man was tall and thin, dressed in a long coat the colour of old ink. His hair was tied back, and his hands were stained with something dark, like dye or soot. He carried a wooden case under one arm and smiled as if he had been expecting them.
“Valour,” he said softly.
Connor’s jaw clenched. “Don’t.”
The man’s smile did not falter. He inclined his head anyway, respectful in a way that made Connor want to grind his teeth. “Forgive me. Old habits. Old truths.”
Fraser’s voice was flat. “Who are you?”
The man lifted the case slightly. “I am the Puppet Master.”
Laird made a small sound in his throat. Half fascination, half fear.
Connor stared at the case. “That is not a name.”
“It is a function,” the Puppet Master replied, as if that explained everything. He opened the case with a careful click.
Inside lay a collection of marionettes, beautifully carved, painted, dressed in tiny clothes that looked hand-stitched. A king with a cracked crown. A wolf with silver eyes. A woman with a veil over her face. A child with blank white eyes.
Connor’s skin prickled. Fraser’s gaze sharpened. “Those look like—”
“Like you?” the Puppet Master supplied, delighted. “Yes. I carve what I see. Or what I am shown.”
Connor’s voice went low, hating the way the man said it. As if the world had always been a stage and now Connor had recently been cast. “Shown by whom?”
Laird edged closer to Connor, as if proximity could protect him. Fraser did not move, but Connor felt the shift in him. The readiness, and the quiet promise of violence if needed.
The Puppet Master lifted one marionette from the case. The wolf. Its joints moved with eerie smoothness as he held it. “My gift,” he said, “is not merely craft.”
Connor waited.
The Puppet Master’s smile thinned. “I can bind motion to intention. I can take what someone means to do, what they are about to do, and pull it forward.”
Fraser’s eyes narrowed. “You can control people.”
A shrug. “Control is such an ugly word. I can interrupt. I can redirect. I can make a hand that would strike fall open instead.” His gaze slid to Connor. “Or I can make a coward step between a blade and a child.”
Laird swallowed audibly.
Connor’s voice was cold. “And what’s the cost?”
The Puppet Master’s eyes gleamed. “Always with you, Valour. Cost. Consequence.
“Very well. The cost is that I must take something from myself to do it. A memory. A sensation. A piece of my own will.” He tapped his temple lightly. “The more I pull on another’s strings, the more my own fray.”
Fraser’s expression didn’t change, but Connor saw the faint tightening around his eyes. He understood that kind of bargain. Too well. His scars bore testament to his past.
The Puppet Master returned the wolf to the case and closed it with reverence. “But it is easier here,” he added, glancing around the village. “In this world. The Veils are thinner, and the air is kinder.”
Connor snorted. “More choice of victims, more like.”
“Perhaps,” the Puppet Master said. “But they are still freer.” He stepped aside, gesturing down the lane. “You came to see how we are. Walk. Look. Ask. We will not bite. Unless you deserve it.”
Then he was gone, slipping into the crowd like ink into a well.
Laird let out a breath he had been holding. “He’s creepy.”
Connor grunted. “Aye.”
Fraser’s voice was quiet. “Useful.”
Connor shot him a look.
His friend met it without flinching. “We’re dealing with magic we do not understand. Anyone who can redirect intention is a weapon. Or a shield.”
Connor didn’t like how true that was.
They continued deeper into village, and people noticed them, of course. Heads turned. Conversations paused. But there was no fear in it now, more a curiosity, more a cautious hope.
A few even smiled. Connor didn’t know what to do with that.
A woman stepped out from a low building with a sign painted in green: Apothecary. Bundles of dried herbs hung in the window like charms. The scent hit Connor before she spoke, lavender, bitterroot, something sharp and medicinal.
The woman was older, her eyes bright and assessing. She’d braided her hair tight, and her hands were stained with plant dye.
“Valour,” she said, and unlike the Puppet Master, she said it like a title that carried responsibility, not romance.
Connor’s jaw clenched again. “Connor.”
The Apothecarist nodded once, accepting the correction. “Connor, then. And you are the Valour’s blade.” Her gaze flicked to Laird. “And the young one is Brannigan’s heart.”
Laird flushed. “I’m… I’m…”
“Hope and compassion,” she said briskly. “That is your purpose.”
Fraser’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How are your people?”
The Apothecarist’s expression softened a fraction. “Better. We sleep. We eat. We have stopped listening for the Council’s footsteps in every shadow.”
Connor’s stomach tightened. “You were under them.”
A humourless smile. “Under. Around. Inside. The Council of Veils did not rule with banners. They ruled with absence. With removal. With the threat that if you stepped out, you would be taken.”
Laird’s voice was small. “Taken where?”
The Apothecarist’s gaze went distant. “Back behind the Veils. Into the realms that do not forgive.”
Connor’s hands curled. He hated councils. Hated men who ruled without getting their hands dirty.
“And now?” Fraser asked.
“Now,” she said, and there was something like wonder in her tone, “we are here. In your cold, honest world. And do you know what is strange?”
Connor waited.
“No one disappears,” she said quietly. “Not unless they choose to leave. And it is terrifying. Because freedom is a thing you must learn to carry.”
Connor felt Fraser move beside him, a subtle tension.
Laird whispered, “That’s…good.” He frowned. “What happens to people from outside who find their way here? I mean, they shouldn’t, because this is Connor’s land, but what if…” His voice trailed off.
Connor nodded. “Good question. Hikers often stray onto my land, or motorists who break down on the main road somehow think this is the way to go.”
“It is,” the Apothecarist agreed. “But the answer is not mine to give. Ask Xiathen about it.”
Another brush-off.
Connor was getting sick of it.
His gaze flicked to the street, to the people moving with purpose, to the children laughing. “Any sickness? Any new incidents?”
The Apothecarist shook her head. “No plague. No sudden madness. A few nightmares. Some trembling. Some grief that has finally found room to breathe.” She hesitated. “And one more thing.”
Connor’s spine tightened. “What?”
“The marks,” she said. “I can sense them.”
Fraser’s gaze sharpened. Laird looked confused.
Connor’s voice went flat. “What marks?”
The Apothecarist’s eyes held his. “The binding marks. They are beginning to show on those who were named.”
Connor’s pulse thudded once, hard, and he forced his face to remain blank. “No one named me.”
The Apothecarist’s smile was small, pitying. “The Triarc did. Xiathen did. The village did. You can refuse the word, Connor Brannigan, but the Veils do not care about your disbelief.”
Connor’s jaw clenched so hard it ached.
Fraser’s voice was low. “Who else has a mark?”
The Apothecarist’s gaze slid past Connor, as if she could see Adrian in her mind’s eye. “The other Valour. The one who smiles like a blade.”