Page 32 of Unveiled

Connor saw Adrian go pale, his gaze wary.

“I have a small infection, nothing too serious.”

Connor knew it was a lie. Before he could say anything, Melanus stepped forward.

“It is no infection. It is a powerful sigil. It ties you to the Council’s will. Their desire to reclaim you is absolute. But the way they chose to pursue you, that is what troubles us, Adrian. Somewhere in your past you have a strong tie to our world. It may be eons ago, beyond recall, or a product of birth we simply don’t understand yet, but—”

Adrian stood up, his expressive hands telling his story. “That’s ridiculous. I have no secret background. I knew my parents, my grandparents, and I can assure you I have no ties to your world. I’m not Clark fucking Kent sent to Earth from another world to fulfil a destiny I don’t even know about.” His chest heaved as he paced the room. “They have no claim on me.”

Melanus sighed heavily. “All I can tell you is that the Triarc have been dreaming. Badly. Painfully. Our dreams echo with symbols we recognise. Anchors, fault lines, and two Valours walking through a sea of shadow.” Her voice thinned. “And a spark. A very specific spark.”

Adrian’s pulse jumped. Connor felt it, even from where he stood.

“No,” Adrian denied. “That can’t be. That spark was ours. It came from—”

“The bond,” Xiathen finished. “A resonance.”

Connor’s wolf bristled. “Our bond isn’t their damned business.”

“But it is,” Melanus said, stepping closer. “Because they needed it.”

Adrian’s throat tightened. “Needed our connection?”

Xiathen nodded once, slow, heavy. “The Triarc believe the Council moved Glengáill to ignite what lay dormant between you. That the displacement, the fear, the rifts, everything was designed to bring you two into alignment sooner. Faster. Harder.”

Melanus spoke again, her voice rough. “The Council didn’t know how to force the Valour spark to manifest on their own plane. Too much resistance. Too much balance. So they cast us out of Utharia entirely, dropped us between realms, into the Mortal Plane, because that instability would shake the Valours awake.”

“You’re saying,” Connor clarified, his voice low and thunder-dark, “they tore a whole village out of its world to what? Make us look at each other?”

Melanus gave a humourless laugh. “Not look. Resonate. They needed the spark. They needed the Valours bound. Because once bound—”

Xiathen finished quietly, miserably, “You are easier to pull.”

Adrian’s breath fractured. “So this entire catastrophe—the rend, the displacement, the hunts—wasn’t an attack on your village at all.”

“No,” Xiathen whispered. “It was a lure. For you.”

Connor’s voice cut through the rising panic like steel through cloth. “Then we unmark him. Break it.”

Xiathen blinked. “You do not simply break a Council mark.”

Connor stood abruptly, palms flat on the table. “Watch me.” He looked at Adrian with unwavering intensity. “They’re not taking you. They’re not taking anyone. No one is being taken by anything while I’m standing.”

Adrian swallowed hard. “You can’t promise that.”

“I just did.”

Something thick and unspoken hung between them. Max shifted awkwardly at the door. Fraser gave what sounded suspiciously like a soft mutter of, “Christ, get a room.”

Connor ignored them.

“For both of you,” Melanus corrected. “The Council doesn’t want the Marked. They want the pair. The Valours forged by crisis. The bond strengthened by fear. The resonance sharpened by survival. They want what you are becoming.”

Adrian’s voice was edgy. “And we walked right into it.”

Xiathen nodded. “The Triarc believe that. They believe your spark, your bond, was the Council’s intention all along. We fled Utharia thinking we escaped the storm.” Their eyes dimmed. “We were the storm’s cargo.”

Connor swore in Gaelic, raw, guttural.