Page 31 of Unveiled

Irial’s expression sobered. “The air is calmer. The village is…settling. But surely soon the Council will notice we’re not where we’re supposed to be.”

That bloody Council again. Who the hell were they? Xiathen had promised to tell him all about it when he saw them next.

Connor’s stomach tightened. “And then?”

Irial shrugged, but her eyes were sharp. “Then they’ll come looking. Or they’ll send something else. Something that doesn’t need permission to cross.”

Laird swallowed. “Like what?”

Irial’s gaze slid to the mountains beyond the village, to the line where mist clung like a bruise. “Like hunger,” she said quietly. “Like debt.”

Connor felt the old, familiar surge of protectiveness rise in him, hot and immediate. The instinct that had made him King long before anyone had called him Valour. He didn’t want this responsibility, but it was already wrapping itself around his throat.

He looked at the townspeople, at the Apothecarist watching with steady eyes, at Irial with her bottled happiness and her fire, at the people moving through the street with cautious freedom. They were safer now. Freer. And that made them vulnerable in a new way.

Connor’s voice came out low. “If anything changes, you send word.”

Irial’s smile was small. “To you.”

Connor didn’t correct her this time. Fraser nodded once, satisfied. Laird looked between them, then at the village, and Connor saw something in his face. Hope, tentative and fierce.

Connor turned, already planning the route back, already thinking of walls and watches and what he’d do if the Council came.

As they walked away, Irial called after them, her voice bright again, as if she refused to let fear be the only thing that lived in her throat. “Connor.”

He stopped against his better judgment and looked back. Irial held up the vial of happiness, the light inside it glowing warm against the grey day.

“Tell your people,” she said, “that we remember what it’s like to be caged. We won’t go back quietly.”

Connor held her gaze for a beat. Then he nodded once and kept walking, Fraser and Laird at his sides, toward his meeting with Xiathen, the weight of Valour settling heavier with every step.

Chapter Ten

Connor

Inside the Inn’s back room, the hearth burned low and restless. Adrian had joined them ten minutes ago, entering the room with confidence and flair, Max close behind him. After the Innkeeper had poured warm glasses of mead and set out baskets of freshly baked bread and honey cakes, the meeting was ready to start.

Cariah paced. Salis watched. Melanus stood still as a rock, waiting. And Connor’s patience frayed like rope in a storm.

“Speak plainly,” he growled at last, arms folded, boots planted wide. “No riddles. No poetic shite. Just tell us why the hell Glengáill was dropped on my land. And who the fuck is this Council we’ve been hearing about?”

Cariah stopped pacing. The hewn-stone floor creaked under his weight.

Xiathen sighed heavily. “The Council of Veils is not a government, not a species, and not a pantheon. It is a self-constructed regulatory force formed within the Veiled Path, the realm between worlds.”

“They exist for one purpose,” Cariah continued. “To maintain equilibrium between worlds by any means necessary. They consider worlds, people, and magic as variables. Not lives.”

“Not rulers,” Xiathen said carefully. “Not gods. Not demons. They are Adjudicators. Wardens of what lies between worlds.”

“We believe,” Melanus began, “the Council did not send the storm without purpose, for they do nothing without an end goal.” She paused. “They sent it to bring us here.”

Adrian froze. “To Scotland? Why would they—”

“Because of you,” Xiathen said softly.

Adrian went still. His breath hitched. Connor stepped closer automatically, his body angled like a shield.

Xiathen approached the table, long fingers gliding over the worn surface. “Your mark, Adrian. The Seal of Pursuit.” They gestured to Adrian’s collarbone. “You have felt it, yes?”