Page 43 of Unveiled

The little girl gave a wave and disappeared. The hall fell quiet. Max nodded. “Wisdom often comes from unexpected mouths.”

Connor stepped forward, placing both hands on the table. “I’ll no’ force unity on any of you,” he said. “But understand this: the threat coming for us doesn’t care which clan you belong to. And if either of our clans falls, so does the valley.”

Adrian mirrored him at the opposite end of the long table, his palms pressed against the wood. “And I assure you, whatever mark the Council put on me, whatever bond they forced on us,” he said, meeting Connor’s gaze, “I’ll not let it dictate our fate. We choose what happens next.”

For the first time since the Gauthier clan arrived, the air shifted. Softer. Warmer. Less divided.

Moira rose. “Then let’s break bread. Clans shouldn’t argue on empty stomachs. To the grand hall with you all. There’s food and drink waiting, and rooms have been prepared for all of you so there’s no cold journey home.”

A wave of relieved laughter rolled through the room. Piper clapped. “I’ll drink to that.”

Fraser nudged Max. “Try not to glare at me while we eat.”

“No promises,” Max said, deadpan.

Garrett muttered something about being allergic to diplomacy, but he stood anyway. One by one the clans filtered out of the drawing room, until Adrian and Connor were left.

“That went as well as could be expected,” Adrian sighed. “I’m sure there will be many more questions and explanations.”

Connor nodded. “This is going to be one hell of a night.”

In the dining hall, Connor and Adrian took seats beside each other, an empty chair between them. Neither moved over, but neither moved away. The bond rested between them like a quiet, pulsing truth.

***

That night, Connor dreamt. Or eavesdropped. It was a surreal moment, a world where on waking he felt both in the scene and watching from afar.

Inside the Athenaeum, the fire burned with an otherworldly rhythm, casting blue-tinged shadows against the curved wicker screens. The air tasted of juniper and old ink, magic gathering, and listening.

Xiathen stood before the hearth, head bowed slightly, hands folded within his sleeves. Morrigan lounged beside him, one hip against the wooden desk, hatpins gleaming like tiny blades in the firelight.

Neither spoke. Not until the flames shifted.

Thin tendrils of pale smoke curled upward, shimmering as though laced with silver threads. The Athenaeum’s air tightened—an old ritual stirring itself awake. Then the mist thickened and swirled until shapes began to form within it.

Figures. Faces. A hall filled with two clans gathered under one roof. Brannigan Castle.

Morrigan whistled low. “Well,” he murmured, “seems the Valours managed to get everyone in the same room without bloodshed. I’d say that’s worth a dram.”

Xiathen didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the smoke as the image sharpened.

Connor standing at the head of the Brannigan table, Adrian at the far end. Two anchors of opposing storms. Firelight glinted off Connor’s tense jawline, and Adrian’s steady but troubled posture. Their clans flanked them. Brannigans rigid with protectiveness, Gauthiers simmering with suspicion.

The smoke carried the faintest echo of their voices: wariness, disbelief, the tremble of old rivalries resurfacing. But beneath it all there was something else. Curiosity. Relief. Possibility.

“They’re holding,” Xiathen murmured at last. “Both clans. Despite the fear.”

“Fear is easier to swallow in company,” Morrigan replied, twirling a hatpin between nimble fingers. “Less choking when you’ve got someone next to you to blame.”

Xiathen’s lips twitched. A near smile. “You jest, but unity is no small thing. Especially for two clans that have long avoided each other’s shadows.”

In the smoke, Max and Fraser joked with each other. Garrett remained seated, bristling with anger. Piper and Moira laughed together as if they had known each other all their lives. Harmony, fragile, tentative, blossomed like a candle flame in winter.

Morrigan’s eyes softened a fraction. “Your Valours have done something rare.”

Xiathen inclined his head. “They have brought wolves and our wanderers to the same table. The Council will not expect this.”

Morrigan leaned closer to the swirling smoke, studying the faint pulse beneath Adrian’s collar. The beginning of a mark, and the way Connor involuntarily angled toward him, as if responding to a gravitational pull neither yet understood. “And they definitely won’t expect that,” Morrigan murmured.