As soon as I returned to the bench, Logan whispered with a smug grin, "You're not dodging the drinks tonight."

Damn it! There was a tradition, I had to treat everyone. Every regular at the pub and every council member had to raise a glass to my health, whether it was a shot or a pint. I'd attended enough of these gatherings to know the drill. On top of that, I was expected to buy drinks for anyone who walked into the pub until closing time. News of my appointment to the council would spread through the clan in no time. At least women weren't obliged to attend, but McLal's pub was bound to be packed. A perfect cover if someone wanted to pull something against me.

Lost in thought, I barely noticed when Uncle Gordon wrapped up his financial report. But the roar of "To the pub!" certainly caught my attention. No matter how eager the men were, a sharp voice, speaking for all married women, rang out in warning. Diana Bailey made sure of that.

"Mind the rolling pin and frying pan, husbands. Don't get too carried away, or you'll be in for some collective discipline tomorrow."

Yes, the clan had its brotherhood, but it also had its sisterhood. If a warlock or shifter ever overstepped in a marriage with an ungifted wife, the women could band together, led by one of the matriarchs, and have a little chat. No one wanted their domestic issues aired in public. It was far less humiliating to take a scolding from one's wife than to endure the relentless buzzing of a whole group of women. The rolling pin and frying pan were more of a symbolic threat. Mostly.

I didn't even make it down from the platform before people started shaking my hand and offering congratulations. By the time I reached my family, I was immediately pulled into a bear hug, first by one uncle, then another. They clapped my back, pounded my shoulders.

Bryce leaned in and murmured, "Sorry it took so long. You earned this long ago."

"We need to talk," I whispered back, serious.

My uncle pulled away slightly, searching my face.

"It's important," I mouthed. "Now."

Bryce hesitated for only a fraction of a second before booming.

"Gentlemen… and of course, ladies, I have a little gift for my nephew. We'll be stepping out for five minutes. I trust you'll all be waiting for us at the pub!"

The cheer that followed was mixed with whistles and laughter. Taking advantage of the distraction, we slipped ahead of the slow-moving crowd, hurried to Bryce's house, and practically burst inside, safe under the local magical shielding.

Aunt Ailie looked surprised.

"I thought they wouldn't let you go until morning. Hello, Duncan. What's happened?"

"Evening, Aunt."

Bryce signalled for his wife to hold off on questions, then turned to me.

"You have two minutes," he said.

"An hour before the council meeting, I found a page from Simon's diary on my desk. The entry from the day we met in Farnell."

My uncle's brow furrowed. He scratched his beard, piecing things together, then hit me with something unexpected.

"The werewolf had runes. Similar to the ones on father's killer."

"I thought those were for mind control? And this one had berserker runes and regeneration." Runic tattoos weren't exactly rare. Even within the clan, a couple of people had them.

"We recovered more than just the head from the first one," Bryce said. "We kept the hide. And the tattoos? Same hand. At the very least, the same school, same ink composition, same calligraphy."

The head — I knew about that. They'd spent an entire night drinking to it at the pub. And, if I remembered correctly, got so smashed they ended up kicking it around like a football outside.

But the hide? That part had been kept quiet. Even from me. And I could see why.

"You think the events are connected? Not just the werewolves, but the page too?"

"I suspect so. I was so focused on preparing for the council, on setting up a surprise, that I made a mistake."

"What mistake?"

"I didn't talk to you. How did you notice it? And why?"

I didn't feel like admitting that I'd been expecting trouble all along. I'd had enough people, mostly women, calling me paranoid when I was simply being cautious.

"We had some crooks latch onto us on the train, tried to scam us for money. That made me use a rear-view spell. I spotted him in the corridor, the werewolf was watching me when he thought I couldn't see. And he looked at me with hate."

"Then he at least knew who you were."

A strange feeling settled over me.

"Someone tried to kill me on my birthday. A venomous chimera rat, wrapped up like a present."

"Convenient timing, or something personal?" Bryce muttered.

"The Ferons?"

My uncle shook his head, but there was doubt in his eyes.

"You probably haven't heard…"

"The mistress? I have." I waved him off. "Alexandra?"

"Highly unlikely, but I'll check." Bryce exhaled. "Time for the pub. We act like nothing happened."

"Do you want some antitoxin?" Aunt Ailie offered.

"I'll take some," Bryce said. "Duncan doesn't need it, he's rubbish at pretending to be drunk."

"Hold on," I interrupted. "What exactly is my gift?"

"Ah, right!" My uncle smacked his forehead, suddenly remembering the excuse for our absence, and dashed upstairs.

Aunt Ailie quickly opened a cabinet in the sitting room, revealing a small selection of alchemical supplies. She poured a few drops from three different vials into a glass, then topped it up with gin and handed it to me.

"At the very least, this'll slow the effects."

I downed it in one go and winced as the fiery liquid burned its way down my throat. It scorched my oesophagus and hit my stomach like a stone. Eyes squeezed shut, I shook my head from side to side, trying to shake off the unpleasant sensation. I barely noticed Bryce coming back downstairs.

"Ailie!" My uncle's voice was sharp.

"Bryce!" she shot back, just as sharply. "You might be pickled through and through, but does the boy have to wake up feeling like death?"

"He's young, he's healthy, he'll recover before I do. Hand!" my uncle demanded.

I held out my hand. Bryce drew a dagger from a leather sheath. It looked strikingly similar to my grandfather's. With a quick motion, he sliced the tip of my index finger. Then he tossed the blade in the air, caught it by the sharp end, and held it upright, turning it slightly so the two aquamarines embedded in the hilt gleamed.

"You know what to do," he said, sheathing the dagger and passing it to me.

I let a drop of blood fall onto each gemstone. They absorbed it hungrily. A strange sensation formed at the edges of my consciousness, like discovering a new limb. It was far stronger than the feeling I got from my cufflinks, which had already healed the tiny cut on my finger. My shirt was plain today, with round sleeves and buttons, but I wasn't about to part with my usual charms, I simply stuffed them into my waistcoat pocket.

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Bryce threw back his glass of antitoxin, it was a much larger dose than mine, then handed me a vial of healing potion. I licked my finger and held it up, showing there wasn't a single mark left.

"Right then, let's go," Bryce said and shoved me towards the door.

As we stepped outside, I turned the dagger over in my hands, holding it by the sheath.

"What exactly does it do?" I asked.

Instead of answering, Bryce yanked the blade free and hurled it at the fence. The dagger embedded itself, point-first, into the wooden post of a short white picket fence.

"It comes back," he said. "Hold out your hand and call it."

I did as he said, stretching out my arm and focusing on that extra sensation, the new limb. Slowly, I tried to move it. A prickling started in the centre of my palm. The dagger quivered in the post, then dropped onto the grass.

"With more conviction!" Bryce encouraged.

I pulled harder, and the dagger shot forward like a bullet. I'd overdone it, lost control, the blade spun wildly, heading straight for Bryce's head.

Lightning flickered around my uncle's hand as he activated an acceleration spell, effortlessly catching the dagger mid-air.

"No worries, you'll get the hang of it. But you'll be practising sober."

Bryce pulled a keychain from his pocket, with a couple of reservoir stones attached, and drained the remaining charge from the dagger's hilt.

"Here." He handed it back.

"Thanks," I muttered.

The pub was packed. People started pushing forward with their congratulations before we even made it to the door. We barely squeezed our way inside. And the moment I caught the eye of the owner, Eugene McLal, who was busy at the bar with a bottle of whisky and a row of shot glasses. I raised my voice and called out,

"Drinks are on me!"

A deafening cheer approved of my financial recklessness.

Eugene lined up a row of glasses on the bar and, with a single sweep of his bottle, filled them all at once, not caring about the whisky that splashed onto the counter. The shots disappeared into eager hands in an instant. Nearby, his son and daughter worked in perfect sync, pouring pints with both hands, while his wife passed out bottled drinks.

We were still a couple of metres away from the bar, crushed in the crowd, when, somehow, a shot glass found its way into my hand. Whisky. Damn it. I tried to dodge it.

"A pint of lager."

The shot was swiftly handed off to Bryce, and my request made its way through the crowd. Moments later, a full pint was plucked from someone else's grasp and shoved into mine.

"Everyone ready?" I called.

A hesitant "No" came from somewhere in the back, but before anyone could complain, another round of shots appeared on the bar. Some people now had two.

I lifted my heavy, faceted pint glass high.

"To Bremor!"

"To Bremor!" the crowd roared.

The entire district seemed to shake. Foam was blown off pints, drinks sloshed over the rims, and shot glasses were emptied, mostly into well-trained throats.

I took three large gulps of beer, but someone shouted, "Bottoms up!" and there was no getting out of it. I had to keep drinking until only foam remained at the bottom. No sooner had I finished and caught my breath than another pint was shoved into my hands.

The elders took their turn to offer congratulations, each sharing the story of how they had once been accepted into the council. These tales had been told in the pub countless times, most regulars could recite them by heart. The younger crowd listened, while the rest of us made serious faces, nodded in the right places, and quietly worked our way through the whisky and beer.

I, however, was expected to maintain eye contact with the storyteller.

At least I didn't have to stand — Bryce had secured us a table in the centre of the ground floor, complete with food: baked potatoes and pork ribs. But eating while locking eyes with the elders was… awkward. The only chance I got to take a bite was when one storyteller swapped places with another.

I thought it would drag on forever, but the old men had somehow coordinated amongst themselves. Only four spoke, Grandfather's cousin, Jonathan Kinkaid, along with the elders McLilly and Kink. The rest quickly gathered into their own huddle, quietly gossiping about the younger generation.

Four stories had cost me three pints, plus the one I'd already downed, which left me with a rather pressing need to visit the privy. I excused myself and slipped away, using the time to splash cold water on my face and cast a sobering spell from my notebook.

Then I hesitated.

And added the rear-view spell as well. It had come in handy on the train.

By the time I returned, the formal toasts had died down, and the crowd had broken off into groups based on their drunken interests: darts in the corner, billiards and cards on the upper floor. The elders, now thoroughly sluggish, were being escorted home by the younger men.

I considered making my escape. But then I saw movement behind me — Logan, sneaking up with two fresh pints in hand. I sighed and turned around.

"We should've invited Simon," I said, taking my pint with resignation. "He loves this sort of thing."

"Oh, he's here, all right," Logan said. "Won at least a hundred playing bridge. He's bloody good at it!"

"Who's he playing with?" I asked, suddenly uneasy.

"Ungifted folk," my brother reassured me, but not for long. "Mark Bailey, Hamish Boily… Robert Feron."

"Robert?!"

Robert was a third or fourth cousin to the late Simon Feron, just a year younger than him, which made him a year older than me. He'd spent his entire life trying to unlock his spiritual heart. Worked hard at it too, as far as I could tell. Never succeeded, but he never stopped trying, taking herbal infusions, meditating. I respected that, but some pitied him.

Compared to Simon, Robert was a downright sweetheart, a decent man. When he was sober. Alcohol, however, turned him into something bitter and resentful.

"Oh, come on," Logan waved me off. "I've seen what he's like."

"And I've seen how easily he starts fights. You really think they banned us from 'The Tear' for nothing? Come on, we'd better keep an eye on him."

On the way upstairs, I got a few more congratulatory slaps on the back from familiar faces, followed by a loud greeting from the second floor.

A very drunk Simon, abandoning his cards and moving over to the billiard table, joined in the commotion, demanding a drink with the guest of honour.

"Don't start any trouble," I murmured to him.

"No trouble!" Kettle promised. He was clearly still riding the high of having mastered lightning magic and seemed to be in a peaceful mood. Though, from the way he was leaning on his cue, I had a feeling it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"Shouldn't you be heading home?" I asked. "Training's going to be hell with a hangover. You haven't even locked in the lightning properly yet."

"Gentlemen!" Simon turned to his fellow players. "It has been an honour…"

"We're not finished!" Robert snapped.

He didn't look much steadier than Simon.

"I concede," Simon said easily, pulling a few banknotes from his pocket and squinting at them, trying to make out the denominations. After a moment, he gave up and slapped the entire wad onto the billiard table. "It was a pleasure…"

"We're not finished!" Feron bellowed, offended.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Robert!" I groaned. "The man's conceding. Have some dignity!"

"Oh, so you gifted lot just look down on us, do you? We're nothing to you, is that it?" Robert's voice rose. "Look at Duncan now, great bloody wizard, council member! Think you're not full of yourself, do you?"

I sighed and gave Logan a pointed look.

Logan sighed too, then warned sharply, "Robert, I'll smack you in the mouth."

"Piss off!"

"Gentlemen," Simon cut in, still trying to be the peacekeeper. "Let's not argue. We can finish the game."

Robert shrugged off his hand.

"And you can sod off!"

Mark and Hamish stepped in to calm Robert down, but he wasn't having any of it, called them both lapdogs.

That did it.

Boily, already tipsy himself, lost his temper and landed a solid punch on Robert's face. Robert staggered sideways, right into Simon. Kettle caught him just in time, stopping him from hitting the floor.

His thanks?

A right hook to the jaw. A lucky one, too — Simon went down like a felled tree. Still not satisfied, Robert grabbed a cue and swung at Hamish. Hamish ducked. The cue scraped the top of Mark's head instead.

Bailey, furious, snatched a billiard ball off the table and hurled it at Robert.

His aim was atrocious.

The ball missed Robert by half a metre.

And smacked straight into the back of Archie Logg's head.

Archie had been minding his own business at the next table, casually knocking balls around. Fights at these gatherings weren't exactly uncommon. But this? This was about to take a very bad turn. Archie was a shifter, a pine marten.

"Archie!" Logan was in front of him in an instant, cutting him off. "They're drunk.

The real problem was that Archie wasn't exactly sober either. He tried to shove Logan aside, but it was like trying to move a bloody mountain.

And maybe, maybe, things would have stopped there.

But Bailey, in a stroke of genius, threw another billiard ball. It missed Robert entirely and shattered Norman McLilly's beer glass instead.

Logan flinched at the noise. And that was all the distraction Archie needed. He darted past him.

Norman, thoroughly pissed off, retaliated by launching a chair. It crashed into Archie's back and sent him sprawling.

Meanwhile, Bailey and Boily, ignoring the chaos around them, carried on beating the hell out of Robert.

Archie leapt back to his feet, grabbed the same chair, and hurled it blindly in revenge.

Logan tried to catch it mid-air, but all he did was nudge it off course. The chair landed squarely on a table where a group was playing dominoes.

Beer spilled, tiles scattered.

And just like that, the domino players joined the fun. At this point, anything not nailed to the floor became a potential projectile. I crouched down immediately.

I wasn't enjoying this. And I certainly wasn't about to get involved.

Give it a couple more minutes, and someone would start throwing spells, a perfect opportunity to eliminate an inconvenient wizard. All it would take was the right spell…

Smartest move? Get out of the blast zone. And drag Simon with me before he got trampled.

McLal's furniture was sturdy, if a table caught you on the head… Well, best not to find out.

I grabbed the baronet by the ankle and hauled him under the billiard table. When I crawled back out, I just managed to dodge a cue stick aimed at my skull, my rear-view spell saved me there. I ducked instinctively.

But then something strange happened.

The cue froze mid-air, barely an inch from where my head had been.

"Martin!" I snapped, recognising my distant cousin.

Taking advantage of his hesitation, I swung at him, aiming to knock him out, but the bastard had a physical-protection amulet. All I did was bruise my own knuckles.

Before I could try again, Eugene McLal stormed up the stairs and bellowed at the top of his lungs:

"THAT'S ENOUGH, YOU BLOODY IDIOTS!"

His voice, laced with magic, slammed through the room like a hammer. The brawlers stopped in their tracks. Those who dared grumble received an extra magical kick to shut them up.

Five minutes later, every single one of them was tidying up. And to top it all off, my bill now included damages for the bloody furniture. Yes, McLal's tables and chairs were solid. But this wasn't just your average drunken pub fight. A couple of them still got broken.

Once everything was cleaned up, McLal booted everyone out.

Except me.

He was willing to make an exception, but I used Simon as an excuse, threw his unconscious body over Logan's shoulder, and made my escape.

As we reached the house, I asked Logan to dump our guest onto the bed. Then I lingered on the porch and murmured, "Coming in, McLilly?"

No answer.

But I knew he was there. I could see his aura, clear as day, with my third eye.

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