Page 50 of Unveiled

By the third day, Adrian couldn’t bear it anymore. The warmth had grown into heat. The heat into pressure. The pressure into a steady, rhythmic pull, like a hand closing around his sternum from the inside.

I need to speak to Xiathen and Melanus. He dressed quickly and started the walk to the village. The day was beautiful, with blue skies, cold air, and verdant valleys and hills. But he couldn’t enjoy the view. He was halfway to the village when a sudden burning made him catch his breath. He stumbled, his breath hitching. Strong arms caught him before he hit the stones.

“Adrian?”

Adrian tried to speak. Couldn’t. His throat closed around the words. Connor’s arms steadied him, solid and grounding.

“I felt your pain, I had to come,” Connor said, his voice tight. “Where does it hurt?”

Adrian grabbed Connor’s wrist and pressed it to his chest. Connor’s eyes widened as the pulse flared under his hand. “Adrian,” he breathed. “It’s burning.”

Adrian nodded. “Yes. And I don’t know why. I don’t—”

The mark pulsed again so violently he clutched Connor’s coat. Connor held him through it, fury etched into every line of his face.

“That’s enough,” Connor growled, lifting Adrian’s weight as though it were nothing. “We’re getting answers tonight, whether Melanus is ready or not. And don’t argue. I’m, we’re not losing you to a damned glowing scar. You hear me?”

Adrian laughed, the sound breaking at the edges. “You have a terrible way of comforting people.”

“Good thing I’m not trying to comfort you,” Connor muttered. “I’m promising.”

They met once again with Xiathen and Melanus in The Dry Pig’s back room. The hearth burned low. The walls felt too close. Adrian’s mark throbbed like a second heartbeat. Connor stood so close their shoulders brushed. Melanus paced. Xiathen watched. And Adrian felt the world tilt beneath him.

Melanus’s voice cracked first through the silence. “We know why the mark is waking.”

Adrian’s fingers tightened on the back of the chair. “Why?” he asked.

Xiathen spoke gently, regretfully. “Because the Council is calling you home.”

One moment, Melanus’s words were echoing in his skull and the next, he found himself in the bathroom, gripping the edge of the washbasin, his knuckles white, his breaths shallow and uneven. The room spun as the lantern light flickered. His reflection stared back at him: pale, hollow-eyed, marked.

He touched the skin over the sigil. It felt no different to the touch—smooth, warm, innocuous—yet every breath scraped past the knowledge that it was calling to something ancient and hungry. A soft rasp left him, half laugh, half sob.

“So it is me they want,” he muttered. How could that be? He had no connection to this other world.

A knock startled him upright.

“Adrian?” Connor’s voice came deep and rough, concern threaded through every syllable.

Adrian sighed. “I need a moment.”

Silence followed. Then Connor’s voice. “I’ll wait.”

Adrian snorted softly. Of course he would.

Connor Brannigan was many things: infuriating, stubborn, sharp as winter wind. But he was steadfast. Always. The mark pulsed faintly at the thought of him, as if recognising something in Connor that Adrian had not yet admitted aloud.

“Damn it,” Adrian hissed, pushing away from the basin.

He slid down to sit on the floor. “Who the hell am I?” he asked into the dimness. “Why do they want me?”

The mark pulsed, faint, almost sympathetic. Adrian’s lips curled into a self-mocking smile. “Don’t you dare comfort me. You’re the reason we’re here.”

He stood, opened the door, and stepped into hallway.

Connor was waiting, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. His eyes flicked over Adrian’s face, reading every fracture.

“You’re thinking too much,” Connor said.