Chapter Twenty-Two
Connor
Connor stood at the top of the stone staircase in his castle, staring down into the great hall where flames guttered low in the sconces.
The air carried a tension so sharp it might have flayed the skin from bone.
Clan members moved in hushed, frantic clusters, whispering too fast and too close, as though afraid the shadows might overhear.
Maybe they were right to fear it. The Nightwrought had been inside the fort. Inside Adrian’s walls. Inside his home.
His stomach twisted, fury flaring hot again, but beneath the rage, something colder writhed. And he hated that cold part, hated what it meant. The Council of Veils was trying to take Adrian away from him.
An urgent summons back to the castle had necessitated him leaving Adrian at his home.
Graeme had fallen, injuring his leg, and Angie had needed to set the bone and prepare her poultices to stop infection.
Connor needed to be there—one of his pack was hurt, and that was where his place was right now.
Fraser approached with a stack of weapons in his arms. “The lads have prepped the armoury,” he said. “Crossbows, steel, silver, anything we might need.”
Connor nodded absently. He was remembering how he’d left Adrian. The Frenchman was breathing shallowly, his shoulders tight beneath his coat. A sheen of sweat glimmered on his brow. He looked like a man trying very hard not to lash out.
Connor strode toward him. “I must leave; one of my pack is injured. No wandering off. No heroics. No sacrificing yourself because you think it’s noble.”
Adrian huffed a breath. “I’m not noble.”
“You’re reckless,” Connor corrected. “And infuriating. And if you disappear again into those damned woods, I will drag you back by the hair.”
Adrian blinked. “How romantic.”
Connor’s jaw twitched. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” Adrian’s voice softened. “So am I.”
Connor didn’t trust the way his heartbeat kicked at that.
“The mark,” Adrian whispered. “It’s…louder.”
Connor stiffened. “What does that mean?”
Adrian swallowed. “It means the Council is impatient. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.”
A chill scraped down Connor’s spine. He’d reached out, taking Adrian’s wrist before Adrian could flinch away.
The pulse beneath his fingertips stuttered like a trapped bird.
Connor drew him nearer, lowering his voice to something reassuring, rough enough to anchor reality.
Then he’d left with a promise to be back soon.
Something else was stirring beneath the bark and soil, something Xiathen had insisted could no longer be ignored. He’d called them all to the village, saying the Triarc had seen movement in the Harrow.
The following morning, the walk to the Athenaeum carried an unnatural quiet.
Mist pooled low along the treeline, creeping between trunks like a slow breath.
Fraser walked ahead, tense but alert, while Max took the rear, his gaze flicking constantly to the forest’s darker seams. The woods around Glengáill had always felt old, but that morning they felt watchful.
No one spoke until Adrian broke the silence. “I wonder what the Triarc has seen that makes this visit so urgent.”
Connor shot him a look. “They’ve seen shadows. Nothing more.”
“That’s not what Xiathen said,” Adrian countered.
Connor grimaced. “Aye, well. Xiathen’s definition of ‘nothing more’ tends to be worlds beyond ours.”
Fraser snorted softly. “I’d still rather hear it from them than guess in the dark.”
Max muttered, “Just so long as this doesn’t turn into another prophecy lecture.”
Adrian’s lips twitched. “It might.”
“Wonderful,” Max deadpanned.
The Athenaeum loomed into view—a half-buried stone structure wrapped in vines, the stained-glass windows glowing faintly from within. The air grew warmer the closer they walked, humming with the soft static of magic.
Xiathen waited by the door. “Valours,” he greeted, his voice soft but echoing in a way the air shouldn’t allow. “Good to see you.”
Connor folded his arms. “We came as soon as we got your message. What’s this about?”
Xiathen’s gaze flickered over Adrian. “The Triarc believes your minds have become attuned to the shifting Veil. We may be able to touch it through the Valour Pattern embedded in the Rift, see what its plans are. And your mind—” he glanced at Adrian more directly— “is the clearest.”
Adrian stiffened but didn’t look away. “Why mine?”
“Because you are the Marked,” Xiathen said simply. “And the Pattern listens to the Marked.”
Connor stepped forward sharply. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“You dislike most things involving magic,” Adrian murmured, amused.
Connor glared. “Not magic. Just the part where the risk always lands on you.”
Adrian held his gaze. “I’m not afraid to see what’s coming. As long as I have you by my side.”
“Well, I am,” Connor snapped. “And you should be too.”
Max stepped between them, raising a hand. “You two can argue after we hear the actual plan.”
Xiathen inclined their head. “Inside.”
The interior glowed with candlelight and soft wards woven through the air like drifting threads. The shelves curved in impossible arcs, revealing books stacked in spirals that defied weight and geometry.
The Triarc stood in a semicircle near the central scrying basin. Melanus stood tall, silver-eyed, her expression unreadable. Cariah clasped her hands in patience. Salis stood firm, her unseeing eyes focused into space.
Melanus spoke first. “The Veil trembles. Something presses upon it.”
Cariah continued, “We need sight. Clarity. A glimpse of what seeks this valley.”
Salis nodded. “And I believe Adrian’s mind, attuned to the Mark, is the clearest conduit.”
Connor tensed. “No.”
Adrian sighed. “Connor…”
“No,” Connor repeated. “Every time something needs doing, they look at you. And every time it hurts you.”
“This won’t hurt him,” Cariah said gently.
“It shouldn’t,” Salis corrected.
Connor growled under his breath. “That doesn’t help.”
Adrian stepped closer. “This is our fight. I’m part of this bond too.”
Connor leaned in, matching his intensity. “But you’re the one the Council wants. You’re the one they’re hunting. Opening your mind to whatever’s out there…”
“Might be the one thing that saves us,” Adrian finished.
Their eyes held for a long moment. Neither giving, neither backing down.
Max muttered, “Just kiss and make—”
Fraser elbowed him hard. Max shut up.
Xiathen raised their hands. “This is not a forcing of the mind. It is an opening of perception. Adrian will remain anchored. You”—they nodded to Connor—“will keep that anchor strong.”
Connor bristled. “How?”
“By being present,” Xiathen said simply. “He trusts you.”
The bond pulsed faintly between them—warm, undeniable.
Adrian drew a careful breath. “I’m doing this.”
Connor stared at him, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Then, reluctantly, “Aye. Fine. But I stay with you.”
Adrian nodded once. “You’d better.”
The Triarc guided Adrian to the scrying basin, its water shimmering with faint threads of gold and blue. Connor stood behind him, one hand hovering near Adrian’s shoulder—close enough to anchor, far enough not to intrude.
“Open your mind,” Melanus said softly. “Not to the world, but to the pattern beneath it.”
Adrian exhaled, letting his awareness soften. Light. Breath. Warmth. The hum beneath the Athenaeum floor. Shapes flickered, their edges sharp. Connor’s presence behind him was a steady, grounding pulse.
Cariah’s voice drifted like a breeze. “Good…now let the Pattern whisper…”
Something shifted. A shadow. A cold ripple beneath the water. A low, brittle sound like frost fracturing in darkness.
Adrian gasped. “That’s…”
“It’s too soon,” Salis whispered.
The water pulled inward, the basin’s surface darkening, light swallowed whole.
Xiathen stepped forward. “Withdraw. Now.”
But it was too late. Something else pushed through—not a vision, not a memory. A presence. The water split like a pupil opening, and a voice filled the Athenaeum:
Valours.
“The Mouthpiece,” Cariah gasped. “By Dien, that should not be here.”
Whatever the Mouthpiece was rose in the reflection—a figure made of grey cloud with only a hole in the middle, its shape rippling like torn cloth caught in a wind.
Connor grabbed Adrian’s shoulder. “Break it, shut it down!”
Adrian tried to pull back, but the Mouthpiece leaned closer as the basin trembled.
We are coming.
Xiathen slammed his staff against the floor. Light fractured upward, and the vision ripped apart like paper in fire. The basin went still. The glow died. The Mouthpiece vanished.
Adrian staggered. Connor caught him instantly. “Adrian, are you with me?”
Adrian nodded, his breath shaking. “I didn’t invite it. It forced its way in.”
Melanus looked grim. “It was not your mind it reached for.”
Salis whispered, her voice trembling with dread, “It reached for the bond.”
The room fell silent. Connor pulled Adrian closer—instinct, protectiveness, fear sharpened into something fierce and immovable.
“Then it can try again,” he said, his voice low and deadly calm. “But it’ll find us waiting.”