Chapter Twenty-Six
Connor
The walk back to the castle shouldn’t have taken long. But nothing in the valley felt normal anymore. Not the air, which clung too close to the skin. Not the trees, which leaned as though listening. Not the ground, which shivered as if remembering where the rend had kissed it.
And certainly not the people. One limping, one half-conscious, one bleeding into a stranger’s coat, and two Valours walking side by side as though the night itself were holding its breath between them.
Connor had Adrian’s weight tucked under his arm, the Frenchman leaning heavily against him. He kept insisting his legs worked fine. Connor ignored him.
The slight tremble in Adrian’s steps told the real story. The glow of the mark had dimmed, but not nearly enough. Connor could feel it through Adrian’s shirt. The heat radiating like an ember waiting for fuel. It made Connor’s teeth sting, made the wolf in him pace in tight, furious circles.
They climbed the rise toward the castle, its lanterns dim in the swirling fog. Connor had insisted Adrian return with him. The others trudged ahead, Max half-carrying Irial, Fraser checking their flank every few steps.
Only Adrian broke the quiet. “Connor,” he muttered, his breath fogging. “You don’t have to hold me like I’m about to crumble.”
“You are about to crumble.”
Adrian attempted a laugh. It dissolved into a sharp inhale of pain.
Connor’s hold tightened. “You see?” Connor muttered. “Proves my point.”
Adrian’s head dipped, his dark curls shadowing the fever-bright sheen of his eyes. “Fine. Perhaps I am slightly unsteady.”
“Slightly,” Connor echoed, rolling his eyes. “You nearly collapsed every time the wind changed direction.”
“The wind was hostile,” Adrian said gravely.
Connor snorted. He couldn’t help it. The sound felt like the first real breath he’d taken in an hour.
Adrian leaned into him more. “Mon dieu. The brute has humour.”
“You’ll be grateful for my brute strength in about two minutes when you inevitably pass out.”
“I don’t pass out,” Adrian said, affronted.
Connor’s glare said otherwise.
Adrian sighed. “I pass out with grace.”
The castle doors groaned open as they approached. Warmth spilled out along with torchlight, the scent of smoke and stew, and the sound of anxious voices echoing from the entry hall.
When the Brannigan clan saw their leader step inside covered in ash, blood, and frost, conversation died in a single collective breath.
Connor ignored the stares. He nodded Max to bring Irial to the infirmary wing. Moira appeared, her eyes sharp and assessing, already issuing orders to her assistants. Then she saw Adrian. Her expression softened and tightened all at once.
“Get him upstairs,” she ordered. “Now.”
Connor didn’t need telling twice. He guided Adrian through the maze of corridors, avoiding curious eyes.
Adrian said nothing now. His breaths were shallow, evenly spaced, almost too controlled.
When they reached Connor’s room—the only one fortified enough to keep whatever still lingered at bay—Connor shouldered open the door. Adrian tried to step away from him, but Connor didn’t let him.
“Sit.”
“That is not a very polite—”
“Sit, Adrian.”
Adrian sat.
Connor knelt in front of him. “Let me see.”
Adrian flinched. “It’s the mark.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
Adrian hesitated, then lifted shaking fingers to unbutton his shirt. He stopped halfway, his breath hitching, and Connor brushed his hands away gently to finish the task himself.
When he peeled the fabric aside, a cold rage curled up Connor’s spine. The mark had spread. What had been a single sigil now spiralled in faint, branching veins of light that threaded across Adrian’s chest like a network of celestial scars.
The glow was dimmer than before, thank God, but it pulsed faintly, like the aftershock of something vast.
Adrian swallowed. “It looks worse than it feels.”
Connor’s jaw flexed. “How does it feel?”
Adrian hesitated. “Like something is waiting.”
The words chilled Connor more than the night wind ever could. Before he could respond, Adrian’s face tightened. His fingers curled. He inhaled sharply through his teeth.
Connor moved instantly. “Talk to me, Adrian.”
“It’s nothing. Just noise. Echoes.”
Connor leaned closer. “From the Council?”
“From everything,” Adrian said. “They’re whispering under the skin. Like the mark is a door they do not know how to open. Yet.”
Connor’s stomach twisted. “If they touch you again—” he began, his voice low.
“They will,” Adrian murmured. “You felt it. The vow did something. It slowed them. Angered them. But it didn’t stop them.”
Connor inhaled sharply. “Then we figure out how to do that.”
Adrian looked up at him. “And if stopping them means losing something else?”
Connor didn’t answer, because he already knew the cost. He’d felt it when the vow locked in place. Every instinct in him recognised the weight of it.
A Valour’s vow was binding. Old as the clans, older perhaps. A magic of protection and sacrifice intertwined.
Xiathen had warned them without saying the words: One Marked. One Bound. Two threads braided into a single path. And something always breaks under strain.
Adrian’s lashes flickered. “You shouldn’t have said it three times.”
“I did,” Connor said gruffly. “And I’d do it again.”
Adrian made a soft, pained sound, a cross between a laugh and a curse. “You’re impossible.”
Connor brushed a strand of hair off Adrian’s forehead, barely realising he’d done it. “Sleep. Your body needs it.”
“No,” Adrian said. “If I sleep, the mark gains room.”
Connor paused. “Explain.”
“When I’m awake, I push back. When I’m unconscious, I don’t. The mark grows. But if I don’t sleep—”
“You’ll collapse.”
“Oui.”
Connor exhaled slowly through his nose. “Then you don’t sleep alone.”
Adrian blinked, startled. “Connor.”
“I’m not letting the Council drag you off through a dream.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Then you’re explaining it badly.”
Adrian stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed. “I don’t have the energy to bloody argue with you. But if the mark pulls you with me—”
“Then it pulls us both,” Connor said, his voice final and unyielding. “I won’t have you fighting that thing alone.”
Adrian laughed sharply. “You’re a fool.”
“Probably.”
“And stubborn.”
“Definitely.”
“And dangerous to know.”
Connor leaned closer. “Then it’s fortunate you’ve already met me.”
Adrian’s eyes softened, something raw flickering behind them. “Connor.”
But whatever Adrian meant to say was lost as the door slammed open. Moira stood there, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dark with worry. “You two. Now.”
Connor rose slowly. “What happened?”
Moira’s gaze flicked to Adrian’s mark, and she paled. “Xiathen said you refused the Council,” she said. “And he says they didn’t take kindly to it.”
Connor stiffened. “What did they do?”
Moira swallowed, her next words dropping like stones. “A child in Glengáill woke screaming, speaking in the Council’s voice.” She paused. “And another cluster of Nightwrought apparently crawled out of the loch.”
Adrian’s breath hitched. Moira stepped aside, letting Fraser rush in behind her, his face ashen.
“It’s not just them,” Fraser said, his voice shaking. “Connor, the entire valley is glowing.”
“What?” Connor demanded.
Fraser nodded weakly. “Cracks of light. Everywhere. From the soil. From the riverbed. From the caves. Like the rend is multiplying.”
Adrian’s hand tightened on Connor’s arm. Connor turned toward him, a quiet dread blooming. “What does that mean?”
Adrian’s voice tightened. “It means the Council isn’t waiting for one doorway anymore.” His eyes lifted. “They’re making many.”
Connor swallowed as Moira whispered the truth aloud. “You refusing them came with a price, lad.”
Adrian nodded grimly. “And it’s only just begun.”