Page 80 of Unveiled

Adrian gasped. “That’s…”

“It’s too soon,” Salis whispered.

The water pulled inward, the basin’s surface darkening, light swallowed whole.

Xiathen stepped forward. “Withdraw. Now.”

But it was too late. Something else pushed through—not a vision, not a memory. A presence. The water split like a pupil opening, and a voice filled the Athenaeum:

Valours.

“The Mouthpiece,” Cariah gasped. “By Dien, that should not be here.”

Whatever the Mouthpiece was rose in the reflection—a figure made of grey cloud with only a hole in the middle, its shape rippling like torn cloth caught in a wind.

Connor grabbed Adrian’s shoulder. “Break it, shut it down!”

Adrian tried to pull back, but the Mouthpiece leaned closer as the basin trembled.

We are coming.

Xiathen slammed his staff against the floor. Light fractured upward, and the vision ripped apart like paper in fire. The basin went still. The glow died. The Mouthpiece vanished.

Adrian staggered. Connor caught him instantly. “Adrian, are you with me?”

Adrian nodded, his breath shaking. “I didn’t invite it. It forced its way in.”

Melanus looked grim. “It was not your mind it reached for.”

Salis whispered, her voice trembling with dread, “It reached for the bond.”

The room fell silent. Connor pulled Adrian closer—instinct, protectiveness, fear sharpened into something fierce and immovable.

“Then it can try again,” he said, his voice low and deadly calm. “But it’ll find us waiting.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Connor

Glengáill had not felt this light in weeks.

Sun spilled in soft bands across the cottages, catching the dust motes that drifted lazily through the air. The late morning breeze carried the smell of warm bread from outdoor ovens, and the faint, earthy sweetness of drying herbs hung beneath windowsills. Children darted between stalls, their laughter echoing like small bells across the square.

Connor stood near the well, arms folded but shoulders loose, watching his clan mingle with the townsfolk—relaxed for once, unburdened. Fraser leaned against the stone lip of the well, carving absently at a bit of driftwood. Max was helping two Glengáill carpenters lift a beam into place, his gruff muttering only slightly offset by the smile tugging at his mouth.

Adrian approached Connor, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of a light coat. “You look unsettled,” he teased gently. “Are you sure you’re allowed to enjoy a peaceful moment?”

Connor shot him a look. “I trust a storm more than a quiet morning.”

Adrian laughed. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know something magical is happening. Xiathen wants us near the marketplace.”

As if summoned by name, Xiathen drifted into view, robes trimmed with faint threads of gold, eyes soft with warm humour. “The Locksmith is ready,” they said. “Best not keep him waiting.”

Connor’s brow lifted. “The Locksmith?”

“He comes out rarely,” Xiathen replied. “His gift is…particular.”

Connor rolled his eyes as Adrian’s curiosity sharpened. From what he’d learned, the Frenchman loved surprises and presents. “What kind of gift?”