Page 27 of Unveiled

The village still sat in the Highlands, a secret dragged into daylight.

Stone cottages. Narrow lanes. Smoke rising from chimneys, as if it had always belonged here.

Yet every time Connor saw it, something in his gut tightened, as if the land itself was holding its breath around it.

They reached the first row of houses, and Connor slowed. No panic today. No crowds spilling into the street with terror in their eyes. No frantic questions. No children crying.

Instead, there were open doors.

A child chased a dog. No, not a dog, Connor realised with a jolt. Something that looked like a dog until it moved weirdly, as if smoke had learned to run.

Fraser’s gaze tracked it, his expression unreadable.

The townspeople moved with purpose. A woman carried a basket of bread. Two men repaired a fence with the calm rhythm of work.

“Everything seems so normal today,” Laird said.

Connor’s mouth twisted. “Being here should show you, normal is relative. And saying what’s happened here isn’t normal is insulting, Laird. Who defines normal?”

Laird’s fair face flushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”

But it was true. The village felt steadier. As if it had found its footing in this world. Or decided it liked the freedom of it.

A figure stepped out from a doorway ahead, and Connor’s hand went instinctively toward the knife at his belt.

The man was tall and thin, dressed in a long coat the colour of old ink. His hair was tied back, and his hands were stained with something dark, like dye or soot. He carried a wooden case under one arm and smiled as if he had been expecting them.

“Valour,” he said softly.

Connor’s jaw clenched. “Don’t.”

The man’s smile did not falter. He inclined his head anyway, respectful in a way that made Connor want to grind his teeth. “Forgive me. Old habits. Old truths.”

Fraser’s voice was flat. “Who are you?”

The man lifted the case slightly. “I am the Puppet Master.”

Laird made a small sound in his throat. Half fascination, half fear.

Connor stared at the case. “That is not a name.”

“It is a function,” the Puppet Master replied, as if that explained everything. He opened the case with a careful click.

Inside lay a collection of marionettes, beautifully carved, painted, dressed in tiny clothes that looked hand-stitched. A king with a cracked crown. A wolf with silver eyes. A woman with a veil over her face. A child with blank white eyes.

Connor’s skin prickled. Fraser’s gaze sharpened. “Those look like—”

“Like you?” the Puppet Master supplied, delighted. “Yes. I carve what I see. Or what I am shown.”

Connor’s voice went low, hating the way the man said it. As if the world had always been a stage and now Connor had recently been cast. “Shown by whom?”

Laird edged closer to Connor, as if proximity could protect him. Fraser did not move, but Connor felt the shift in him. The readiness, and the quiet promise of violence if needed.

The Puppet Master lifted one marionette from the case. The wolf. Its joints moved with eerie smoothness as he held it. “My gift,” he said, “is not merely craft.”

Connor waited.

The Puppet Master’s smile thinned. “I can bind motion to intention. I can take what someone means to do, what they are about to do, and pull it forward.”