Chapter Twenty-Three
Connor
Glengáill had not felt this light in weeks.
Sun spilled in soft bands across the cottages, catching the dust motes that drifted lazily through the air.
The late morning breeze carried the smell of warm bread from outdoor ovens, and the faint, earthy sweetness of drying herbs hung beneath windowsills.
Children darted between stalls, their laughter echoing like small bells across the square.
Connor stood near the well, arms folded but shoulders loose, watching his clan mingle with the townsfolk—relaxed for once, unburdened.
Fraser leaned against the stone lip of the well, carving absently at a bit of driftwood.
Max was helping two Glengáill carpenters lift a beam into place, his gruff muttering only slightly offset by the smile tugging at his mouth.
Adrian approached Connor, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of a light coat. “You look unsettled,” he teased gently. “Are you sure you’re allowed to enjoy a peaceful moment?”
Connor shot him a look. “I trust a storm more than a quiet morning.”
Adrian laughed. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know something magical is happening. Xiathen wants us near the marketplace.”
As if summoned by name, Xiathen drifted into view, robes trimmed with faint threads of gold, eyes soft with warm humour. “The Locksmith is ready,” they said. “Best not keep him waiting.”
Connor’s brow lifted. “The Locksmith?”
“He comes out rarely,” Xiathen replied. “His gift is…particular.”
Connor rolled his eyes as Adrian’s curiosity sharpened. From what he’d learned, the Frenchman loved surprises and presents. “What kind of gift?”
Xiathen smiled, mysterious as moonlight. “Locks are not always metal. And doors are not always visible.”
Fuck me, Connor thought wryly. Another homemade homily. Why can’t anyone ever say what they mean without the mystery?
The Locksmith’s stall had appeared overnight—no one saw him build it, yet it looked as though it had stood there for decades. A small wooden structure with drawers of every shape and size, tools hanging from rafters, tiny glass bottles filled with swirling motes of light.
The Locksmith himself sat on a high stool, thin and wiry with clever eyes and hands that moved as though they were listening to a tune no one else could hear.
He looked up as the group approached. “Ah! Valours. Companions. Wolves of two worlds.” He bowed his head slightly, his beard brushing the collar of his patched coat.
“You’ve come in time. The locks are restless. ”
Adrian blinked. “The…locks?”
The Locksmith plucked a tiny brass key from a dish. “Everything has a lock. Hearts. Memories. Fears. Footpaths that refuse to be found. Doors that only open when asked properly.” He held up the key. “And some locks wish to be changed.”
Connor crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Instead of answering, the Locksmith whistled. A small boy—one of the Glengáill children—approached timidly, holding a battered wooden toy box with a snapped clasp.
“It won’t open,” the boy whispered. “Da says it’s broken.”
“Broken?” The Locksmith scoffed dramatically.
“Nonsense. It’s simply sulking.” He placed the toy box on the counter, lifted the key, and hummed softly.
The key shimmered, then bent, reshaping itself like softened metal.
It lengthened, twisted, and reshaped into something that fit the clasp perfectly.
The boy gasped. The Locksmith turned the new key once, gently. Click. The box opened. Inside were small wooden carvings—animals, trees, little figures—each glowing faintly as though remembering joy.
Adrian’s breath caught softly. “It’s beautiful.”
“Magic,” the Locksmith said, handing the box back to the child, “is most powerful when it mends rather than breaks.”
Fraser let out a low whistle. “Not the kind of magic we’ve been seeing lately.”
“Well,” the Locksmith shrugged, “someone must be in the business of fixing things, since others are so determined to break them.”
For hours, the Locksmith helped anyone who approached, repairing broken trinkets that held emotional weight, unlocking old drawers long sealed by grief, mending a necklace Piper’s mother had given her, and crafting a new clasp for Moira’s recipe book.
Every repair left a faint glow behind—not bright enough to frighten anyone, but enough to remind them that magic did not always come with teeth.
Even Max allowed him to fix the strap of his cloak, grumbling the entire time.
Then the Locksmith turned to Adrian and Connor. “You two,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “are full of locks so old they’ve forgotten what they’re guarding.”
Connor bristled. Adrian raised a brow. “Such as?”
The Locksmith tapped his temple. “Oh, I do not open them. That is not my gift. But I can hear them. Quiet things. Deep things.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “You’ll need those locks before long. Don’t lose the keys.”
Connor frowned. “What keys?”
But the Locksmith simply winked and moved on, helping a pair of townsfolk with a chest that remembered a sorrow they had long since forgotten.
Adrian watched him go, thoughtful. “He’s odd.”
“Aye,” Fraser muttered. “But I think I like him.”
“Most do,” Xiathen said. “His work reminds us that not all magic is warning.”
For the first time in what felt like days, Adrian felt the knot of tension in his shoulders begin to ease. Connor’s posture softened too, slightly, as laughter rippled through the square. Even the air seemed lighter. It was a rare moment—peace without suspicion, magic without fear.
And none of them knew how brief it would be. Because later that night, the wind carried a whisper from the Harrow. And something inside him answered.
Later that evening, after the revelry had quieted, the wind coming off the ridge carried that strange undercurrent again—thin as breath, soft as silk, yet unmistakably alive.
As they walked back home, Adrian stopped, turning toward the dark line of the Harrow.
He put down the beer he’d been drinking and cocked his head.
“There it is,” he murmured. “Do you feel it?”
“It always feels bloody awful,” Max grumbled. “I’m on tenterhooks here expecting hobgoblins to jump out at me and scare me the fuck to death.”
Fraser chuckled as he walked beside Max. Both men carried large canvas bags on their shoulders. “Very fanciful,” he said in amusement. “Now you’ve got me watching the bushes too.”
Connor didn’t even bother looking. “I feel you about to do something reckless,” he muttered, folding his arms. “That place has never called to anyone with good intentions.”
Adrian shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the shifting shadows along the tree line. “No. This isn’t like before. It’s…quieter. Not a lure. More like…” His brow furrowed as he searched for the right word. “…an invitation. Under the full moon.”
Fraser exchanged a look with Max. Max grimaced. “That’s worse,” he announced. “Invitations mean it knows you’re listening.”
Adrian ignored them. His attention remained glued to the forest. “There’s knowledge in there. Answers we’re missing. If I open my mind a little, it might show me what’s coming. And we need all the help we can get.”
Connor stepped directly into Adrian’s line of sight, his jaw set. “Absolutely not. Every time that place tries to get hold of you, something bad follows. I’m not letting you walk toward danger because it feels different today.”
Adrian sighed. “I’m not being pulled blindly. I’m choosing to listen. And I promise you, Connor, this time doesn’t feel like a trap.” He paused. “It feels like clarity.”
“That’s exactly what traps feel like,” Connor snapped.
Adrian lifted his chin. “You don’t have to trust the Rift,” he said quietly. “Just trust me.”
The bond pulsed—warm, undeniable, threading tension between them.
Connor exhaled sharply, frustration evident on his face. “I do trust you,” he whispered. “That’s the problem.”
“Then let me try.”
The wind shifted. And Adrian’s certainty glowed like a light cutting through the fog. Something was different this time. Something safer. Or something pretending to be.
The night hit them with a cold so sudden and sharp that Connor’s breath steamed white in the air. Frost snapped underfoot like thin glass. The moon hung swollen above the valley, a bright circle in the night sky.
Adrian walked beside him, his steps light but unsteady.
Every few paces he pressed a hand to his mark as if trying to quiet it.
The glow pulsed through his shirt in soft, sickly bursts.
Fraser and Max followed close behind, muttering to each other.
They each carried a large duffel bag in which they’d gathered items Xiathen said might help if anything were to happen.
Connor wasn’t convinced that silver chains and some special oil they’d been coated with were truly weapons, but Irial had insisted she’d know when to use him.
“I don’t like this,” Connor muttered.
“You don’t trust me?” Adrian asked, his voice brittle.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Neither spoke again. The woods swallowed them quickly. Tonight, the trees were distorted. They were leaning inward as if bracing against a storm that hadn’t yet arrived. Shadows stitched themselves between branches, long and thin and trembling like they were trying to hold their shape.
Adrian smiled. “It looks beautiful,” he whispered. “Comforting and inviting. It wants to tell me something.”
Connor felt the corruption of that statement and Adrian’s demeanour. Something was manipulating him. “Adrian, this isn’t right. Nothing good is going to come of this.”
Adrian waved a hand. “Don’t you see it?” he asked dreamily. “It’s like all the colours in the world have come together and painted their own picture.”
Connor stepped closer without thinking. “What do you see?”
Adrian’s eyes widened. “Something’s happening. No, don’t go, come back, I need to touch you.” He reached out a hand and Connor grabbed it.
“Adrian,” he barked. “Wake up. Something’s taking over your mind.” He waved at Max and Fraser, who were watching with trepidation. “Stand back, lads. I’ll call when I need you, like we planned.”
The two men stepped away, though not so far that they couldn’t intervene if necessary.
“Things that shouldn’t breathe,” Adrian murmured. “And some that don’t.”
“Stay behind me.”
“I’m not a child.”
“No,” Connor growled. “You’re worse.”
Adrian snorted, a sound that might have been amusement. “Worse than a child?”
“Because I worry more for you.”
Silence. A beat. Two.
Adrian’s voice dropped low. “You shouldn’t.”
“You can tell me that when this is over.”
“If we survive, you can lecture me as much as you like.”
“Oh, I intend to.”
Something flickered behind Adrian’s eyes. It seemed like warmth or relief. But it vanished the moment a shriek ripped through the trees.
A Nightwrought.
They froze. The cry came again. High and metallic, like rusted hinges screaming from the inside of bone. Adrian’s breath hitched. Connor stepped in front of him, his teeth bared.
Two shadows peeled off a nearby tree. Then three. Then five. Their movements were jerky, twitching like marionettes pulled by too many strings. Blank white eyes turned toward Adrian.
Connor stepped forward, his voice a low snarl. “Back. Off.”
The creatures halted. Then they bowed.
Connor’s blood ran cold. Max muttered something under his breath and Fraser placed a hand on his arm. “Patience now,” he murmured. “Let them do their jobs.”
“They bow only to the Council,” Adrian whispered.
“Or to the Marked,” Connor said softly.
Adrian shook his head violently. “Don’t say that. Don’t make me responsible for them.”
“You’re not responsible for anything except staying alive,” Connor snapped.
But Adrian wasn’t listening. He was staring at the creatures with a look Connor had never seen on him before. He wore the look of horror. And recognition.
“They know me,” Adrian breathed. “Connor, they know me.”
Connor didn’t let him linger. He grabbed Adrian’s hand and hauled him forward, ignoring the way Adrian stiffened at the contact. “No more looking,” Connor growled. “Eyes ahead.”
By the time they reached the Rift Clearing, the temperature had dropped even further.
Connor could see his breath and Adrian’s.
The mist curled up in unnatural spirals, like something was pulling the air toward the sky.
The clearing itself glowed faintly. Not like fire, not like moonlight, more like a wound.
Blue-green light bled up through cracks in the earth, spreading in thin veins that hummed beneath their feet. The air tasted of metal and storm.
Connor felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. “Adrian.”
“I see it.”
“What is it?”
Adrian’s face hardened. “The beginning.”
Connor didn’t like the sound of that. “Of what?”
But Adrian didn’t answer. Because the moment they stepped fully into the clearing, the light pulsed deep and resonant, like a heartbeat too large to belong to anything mortal. A voice slithered across the ground.
Marked.
Adrian gasped, stepping back.
You are summoned.