Page 81 of Unveiled

Xiathen smiled, mysterious as moonlight. “Locks are not always metal. And doors are not always visible.”

Fuck me, Connor thought wryly. Another homemade homily. Why can’t anyone ever say what they mean without the mystery?

The Locksmith’s stall had appeared overnight—no one saw him build it, yet it looked as though it had stood there for decades. A small wooden structure with drawers of every shape and size, tools hanging from rafters, tiny glass bottles filled with swirling motes of light.

The Locksmith himself sat on a high stool, thin and wiry with clever eyes and hands that moved as though they were listening to a tune no one else could hear. He looked up as the group approached. “Ah! Valours. Companions. Wolves of two worlds.” He bowed his head slightly, his beard brushing the collar of his patched coat. “You’ve come in time. The locks are restless.”

Adrian blinked. “The…locks?”

The Locksmith plucked a tiny brass key from a dish. “Everything has a lock. Hearts. Memories. Fears. Footpaths that refuse to be found. Doors that only open when asked properly.” He held up the key. “And some locks wish to be changed.”

Connor crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Instead of answering, the Locksmith whistled. A small boy—one of the Glengáill children—approached timidly, holding a battered wooden toy box with a snapped clasp.

“It won’t open,” the boy whispered. “Da says it’s broken.”

“Broken?” The Locksmith scoffed dramatically. “Nonsense. It’s simply sulking.” He placed the toy box on the counter, lifted the key, and hummed softly. The key shimmered, then bent, reshaping itself like softened metal. It lengthened, twisted, and reshaped into something that fit the clasp perfectly.

The boy gasped. The Locksmith turned the new key once, gently. Click. The box opened. Inside were small wooden carvings—animals, trees, little figures—each glowing faintly as though remembering joy.

Adrian’s breath caught softly. “It’s beautiful.”

“Magic,” the Locksmith said, handing the box back to the child, “is most powerful when it mends rather than breaks.”

Fraser let out a low whistle. “Not the kind of magic we’ve been seeing lately.”

“Well,” the Locksmith shrugged, “someone must be in the business of fixing things, since others are so determined to break them.”

For hours, the Locksmith helped anyone who approached, repairing broken trinkets that held emotional weight, unlocking old drawers long sealed by grief, mending a necklace Piper’s mother had given her, and crafting a new clasp for Moira’s recipe book. Every repair left a faint glow behind—not bright enough to frighten anyone, but enough to remind them that magic did not always come with teeth. Even Max allowed him to fix the strap of his cloak, grumbling the entire time.

Then the Locksmith turned to Adrian and Connor. “You two,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “are full of locks so old they’ve forgotten what they’re guarding.”

Connor bristled. Adrian raised a brow. “Such as?”

The Locksmith tapped his temple. “Oh, I do not open them. That is not my gift. But I can hear them. Quiet things. Deep things.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “You’ll need those locks before long. Don’t lose the keys.”

Connor frowned. “What keys?”

But the Locksmith simply winked and moved on, helping a pair of townsfolk with a chest that remembered a sorrow they had long since forgotten.

Adrian watched him go, thoughtful. “He’s odd.”

“Aye,” Fraser muttered. “But I think I like him.”

“Most do,” Xiathen said. “His work reminds us that not all magic is warning.”

For the first time in what felt like days, Adrian felt the knot of tension in his shoulders begin to ease. Connor’s posture softened too, slightly, as laughter rippled through the square. Even the air seemed lighter. It was a rare moment—peace without suspicion, magic without fear.

And none of them knew how brief it would be. Because later that night, the wind carried a whisper from the Harrow. And something inside him answered.

Later that evening, after the revelry had quieted, the wind coming off the ridge carried that strange undercurrent again—thin as breath, soft as silk, yet unmistakably alive. As they walked back home, Adrian stopped, turning toward the dark line of the Harrow. He put down the beer he’d been drinking and cocked his head.

“There it is,” he murmured. “Do you feel it?”

“It always feels bloody awful,” Max grumbled. “I’m on tenterhooks here expecting hobgoblins to jump out at me and scare me the fuck to death.”

Fraser chuckled as he walked beside Max. Both men carried large canvas bags on their shoulders. “Very fanciful,” he said in amusement. “Now you’ve got me watching the bushes too.”