Page 28 of Unveiled

Fraser’s eyes narrowed. “You can control people.”

A shrug. “Control is such an ugly word. I can interrupt. I can redirect. I can make a hand that would strike fall open instead.” His gaze slid to Connor. “Or I can make a coward step between a blade and a child.”

Laird swallowed audibly.

Connor’s voice was cold. “And what’s the cost?”

The Puppet Master’s eyes gleamed. “Always with you, Valour. Cost. Consequence.

“Very well. The cost is that I must take something from myself to do it. A memory. A sensation. A piece of my own will.” He tapped his temple lightly. “The more I pull on another’s strings, the more my own fray.”

Fraser’s expression didn’t change, but Connor saw the faint tightening around his eyes. He understood that kind of bargain. Too well. His scars bore testament to his past.

The Puppet Master returned the wolf to the case and closed it with reverence. “But it is easier here,” he added, glancing around the village. “In this world. The Veils are thinner, and the air is kinder.”

Connor snorted. “More choice of victims, more like.”

“Perhaps,” the Puppet Master said. “But they are still freer.” He stepped aside, gesturing down the lane. “You came to see how we are. Walk. Look. Ask. We will not bite. Unless you deserve it.”

Then he was gone, slipping into the crowd like ink into a well.

Laird let out a breath he had been holding. “He’s creepy.”

Connor grunted. “Aye.”

Fraser’s voice was quiet. “Useful.”

Connor shot him a look.

His friend met it without flinching. “We’re dealing with magic we do not understand. Anyone who can redirect intention is a weapon. Or a shield.”

Connor didn’t like how true that was.

They continued deeper into village, and people noticed them, of course. Heads turned. Conversations paused. But there was no fear in it now, more a curiosity, more a cautious hope.

A few even smiled. Connor didn’t know what to do with that.

A woman stepped out from a low building with a sign painted in green: Apothecary. Bundles of dried herbs hung in the window like charms. The scent hit Connor before she spoke, lavender, bitterroot, something sharp and medicinal.

The woman was older, her eyes bright and assessing. She’d braided her hair tight, and her hands were stained with plant dye.

“Valour,” she said, and unlike the Puppet Master, she said it like a title that carried responsibility, not romance.

Connor’s jaw clenched again. “Connor.”

The Apothecarist nodded once, accepting the correction. “Connor, then. And you are the Valour’s blade.” Her gaze flicked to Laird. “And the young one is Brannigan’s heart.”

Laird flushed. “I’m… I’m…”

“Hope and compassion,” she said briskly. “That is your purpose.”

Fraser’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How are your people?”

The Apothecarist’s expression softened a fraction. “Better. We sleep. We eat. We have stopped listening for the Council’s footsteps in every shadow.”

Connor’s stomach tightened. “You were under them.”

A humourless smile. “Under. Around. Inside. The Council of Veils did not rule with banners. They ruled with absence. With removal. With the threat that if you stepped out, you would be taken.”