Page 64 of Dance in the Stones

“I guess this was what we were expected to find,” Redford said quietly.

Damon approached slowly. Through his connection to the castle, he felt its pain pressing against him - old wounds torn fresh by remembered trauma. “It wants to show us more details about why it shut down, I think.”

The journal belonged to Alastair MacKinnon, the sanctuary’s last keeper before the castle went dormant. His early entries were similar to the journal they’d already read, detailing a thriving network and the dozens of paranormals moving through Duncarrick to safety each month. He wrote about his pride in the work, his determination to protect everyone who sought shelter.

Then came an entry from autumn 1647:

Today I trusted the wrong person. Callum assured me his contacts in Edinburgh could expand our reach and help more paranormals escape before the witch-finders caught them. I gave him the locations of three other safe houses, thinking I was saving lives. Instead I was condemning them.

Damon’s chest tightened. He already knew how this ended.

The raids came at dawn. Edinburgh, Perth, Stirling - all three locations hit simultaneously. They knew exactly where to look, exactly when our people would be most vulnerable. Twenty-three paranormals were captured, and seventeen of them were executed before we could mount rescues.

Callum sold us out for gold and promises of power from the very humans hunting us. He took our trust and weaponized it.

The entries grew darker, more desperate. Alastair tried to rebuild trust, to salvage the network, but paranormals who’d relied on the sanctuary’s secrecy now feared it had been compromised too thoroughly.

The final entry was dated winter 1648:

They came for Duncarrick tonight. Fifty men, armed with iron, silver, and witch-stones. Callum was leading them.

I’ve activated the castle’s final defenses. Everyone currently sheltering here will be able to escape through the old tunnels, but I cannot go with them. Someone must stay to ensure the castle seals properly, to prevent the intruders from following, or from learning the tunnel locations.

I thought being a keeper meant protecting people. I never imagined it would mean dying to keep my failures from destroying everyone else.

The castle deserves better than me. I pray someday it finds keepers who won’t fail it as I have.

The journal ended there.

Damon’s throat burned. Through his palm pressed against the pedestal, he felt the castle’s anguish. The betrayal hadn’t just killed Alastair, it had shattered the castle’s ability to trust, to believe anyone would protect it rather than exploit it.

“It’s not testing our competence,” Redford said hoarsely, and Damon could feel how hard he was affected. “It’s testing whether we’ll stay when things get hard. Whether we’ll betray this place and what it represents for personal gain.”

“It’s afraid we’ll be another Alastair.” Damon closed the journal carefully. “That we’ll mean well but fail when it matters most.”

Through the stone beneath his feet, through the crystals in the undercroft, through the very bones of Duncarrick itself, Damon felt the castle’s question: Can I trust you with this? With everything I represent? With everyone who might seek shelter here?

“Yes,” Damon said aloud. “I swear on my existence, on every life I’ve guarded across millennia. We won’t fail you.”

Redford’s hand covered his, their bond flaring bright. “We’re not just promising this as individuals. We’re promising it as mates. Our bond is permanent. We can’t betray you without betraying each other.”

The castle’s presence pressed closer, desperate to believe, but it was clear it still wasn’t sure. Damon wondered what it would take. We’ve got plenty of time, he reminded himself.

/~/~/~/~/

That evening, Damon’s phone rang.

“We have a problem,” Moira said without preamble. “A group of paranormals has been tracking Duncarrick’s magical signature since you woke the castle. Some are curious allies. Others are decidedly hostile.”

Damon put her on speaker so Redford could hear.

“There’s a coalition that calls themselves the Keepers of the Old Ways,” Moira continued. “They profit from keeping paranormals hidden and afraid - running underground markets, controlling access to safe territories, charging exorbitant fees for protection. A paranormal version of the mafia, if you like. An active sanctuary threatens their entire power structure.”

“How many are involved, do you know?” Redford asked, his expression hardening.

“At least seven. A powerful mage leading them, a vampire who’s roughly four centuries old, and several strong shifters. From what we’ve found out, they’re planning on visiting – and I use that term loosely – tomorrow night with a view to making you shut the place down, or they’ll take control of the sanctuary for themselves.”

Damon’s hellhound surged beneath his skin. This was exactly what the castle feared - people wanting to exploit it, to corrupt its purpose for personal gain. But this time, someone would fight back.