Page 52 of Unveiled

Adrian let out a breath. “I don’t want to be the reason your people lose everything.”

“You’re not,” Connor murmured. “You might be the reason they survive.”

Adrian looked up sharply. “How could I possibly?”

“Because you’re a Valour,” Connor said. “And you’re not alone.”

Adrian snorted. “I don’t feel like a Valour.”

“Good,” Connor said. “The moment you start acting like a pompous legend, I’ll kick you down the stairs.”

Adrian grinned. “You’re terrible at providing comfort.”

“And yet,” Connor said, bumping his shoulder gently against Adrian’s, “here you are. Less worried than you were ten minutes ago.”

Adrian huffed. “Barely.”

“Then we keep going,” Connor murmured. “Minute by minute.”

For the first time since learning the truth, Adrian’s panic loosened. It wasn’t gone but had become quieter. Manageable. Held back by the warmth of Connor’s hand and the certainty in his voice. He breathed slowly, carefully. And the mark pulsed once. Not in pain. Not in demand.

But in recognition.

Chapter Fourteen

Connor

Xiathen had again chosen the old well for their next conversation, as if water and stone made better witnesses than people.

Connor and his small entourage of Laird and Max found the Mystic waiting at the edge of the square, hands folded in the sleeves of his robe, head slightly bowed. It looked less like deference and more like listening, as though something beneath the cobbles had his full attention.

The well itself was ancient, older than the cottages, older than the lanes that pretended at order. Its stones had been worn smooth by generations of hands. Someone had tied scraps of ribbon to the iron crank, bright threads fluttering in the wind like half-remembered wishes.

Max took up position at Connor’s right, solid and silent. Laird hovered on Connor’s left, making no attempt to disguise his hovering.

Connor didn’t waste time. “You said you’d explain more about Adrian and this craziness we find ourselves in.”

Xiathen lifted their head. His eyes were calm, dark, and unsettlingly old. “Yes,” he said. “Because you keep asking the same question with a different mouth.”

Connor’s jaw tightened. “Answer it. The Triarc have had their turn.”

Xiathen didn’t argue. Instead, his gaze slid past Connor, toward the lane that led out of the village, toward the place where Glengáill stopped smelling like damp stone and woodsmoke and began, abruptly, to smell like Scotland again.

“Did you know outsiders can find us?” Xiathen asked quietly. “They can walk our streets. Eat our bread. Touch our walls and swear they are solid.” He huffed a small, humourless breath. “For them, everything shuts when the midday sun is hottest.” He shrugged. “I have no idea why but the tradition of all our shops closing at one o’clock exactly has always been one we fulfill. Then they leave.”

Connor crossed his arms. “And they don’t remember.”

Laird blurted, “We do.”

Xiathen’s eyes flicked to him, and something like approval softened his expression. “You do. Because you all belong to the land that holds this place. The threads may look separate, but they knot more often than you think.”

Connor felt his skin prickle—not at the words themselves, but at how easily they were said. “Stop talking like we’re part of your story.”

Xiathen’s mouth curved faintly. “You are. You simply arrived late.”

Connor said nothing. His hands curled, then relaxed.

“This isn’t a glamour,” Xiathen continued. “Not a simple spell that blurs minds. It’s older than that.”