Night-time visits to relatives were becoming something of a tradition—though not a particularly pleasant one. If I kept running back and forth every evening and morning, when was I supposed to sleep? Drowsiness came in waves, my eyes glued shut, my mouth stretching into one yawn after another. Only the angry growling of an empty stomach kept me from dozing off in the car. Sean didn't drive me all the way into the clan quarter—he dropped me on the outskirts, clearly wary that my disappearance might've been noticed by now.

It hadn't! Either Sean had been that good, or Nicholas's boys weren't good for much at all. And that was precisely when they ought to be on high alert. As it turned out, Uncle had heard about the kidnapping from me. Well—technically, from Auntie, since Bryce had stayed late at work, and I'd ended up at their house, finding only Ailie there. Perhaps it was for the best. By the time Uncle had answered the phone and arrived, I'd had time to brush the dirt off my clothes, wash my face, and tuck into a proper helping of blood sausages spiced up with a restorative potion sauce. The tea that followed was perfectly ordinary—but strong, with just the right amount of milk.

Bryce hadn't brought Nicholas along, and clearly wasn't about to share the new developments with him. In fact, he didn't seem keen on sharing them with anyone.

"Don't tell a soul."

I agreed without hesitation. Honestly, I'd kept so many secrets lately, what was one more?

"What about the werewolf?"

"Singing like a canary."

I perked up, putting on my most intrigued face, but Uncle shut me down.

"Off you go. And wash up. You reek. Last thing we need is you turning up to the funeral smelling like that."

"There's going to be one?"

"No. A general meeting instead. But keep that to yourself. The night might yet have more surprises in store. Now go on—good night."

He practically shoved me out the door, ignoring every question I tried to ask. I made it home, dodged Simon's questions, had a bath, and collapsed. Might've slept straight through the funeral if Uncle hadn't had the foresight to send Sally after me. Funnily enough, she really thought we were going to a funeral.

The morning routine didn't take long. I'd already bathed and shaved the night before. All that remained was to gulp down a slice of pie, a cup of tea, and get dressed. Once I was properly awake and had gathered my wits, I immediately checked the elemental source. Steel shimmered at the bottom, but most of the element had drained away. I headed to the chapel in a truly funereal mood.

By ten o'clock, a crowd had gathered—everyone whose clan duties allowed them to be there. The chapel doors were shut. The Feron sisters were absent, replaced by Donald McLal, who wore a grim expression, ignored every question, and let no one inside. The crowd murmured and speculated but wouldn't act without Robert's parents. When I showed up, a number of eyes turned my way, and things felt uncomfortably tense—though Sean Feron's arrival did help diffuse the attention a little. The man kept to himself, said nothing, didn't fidget, and ignored his wife's dagger-like stares with a stone-faced calm that might've melted a lesser man into the floorboards.

Sally got swept up in the shared anxiety and started spinning her own theories. But after about five minutes, just as the crowd's restless motion peaked, two Coopers and an Austin pickup rolled into the clearing. Uncle Bryce got out of the first with Matt Feron, who was visibly furious and not trying to hide it. Uncle, by contrast, had donned his mask of stern leadership.

From the second vehicle emerged Robert—and the crowd erupted into a hum of alarm, like someone had struck a hornet's nest with a stick. His mother leapt out right after and instantly clutched his arm, as though afraid someone might take her boy away again.

"I beg your pardon," said Bryce, "but I had my reasons for keeping Robert's survival a secret."

A wave of whispered questions rippled through the crowd. Only one man dared to voice it aloud—William McLal, the third contender for the chieftain's seat. He had withdrawn his claim back then, unlike Sean, and unlike Sean, he'd kept his reputation intact.

"Care to explain?"

"No," Uncle replied flatly. "And we won't be discussing it in any of the councils, either."

"Not even in the Small Council?" William pressed.

"Not even there."

The hive buzzed again. Some were outraged, some offended, a few utterly confused, while those who did understand were clearly disturbed.

"I'll explain nothing," Bryce repeated, "but I will issue a directive. From this moment on, disputes within the clan are forbidden. Anyone starting an argument—until this order is lifted—is to be regarded with extreme suspicion."

This time, it was Alexandra Feron who spoke, pointing at her husband.

"So I can't even properly tell this mongrel off anymore?"

"No, you can't!" snapped Bryce. "Your family squabbles concern me the least!"

"I've a thing or two to say to you as well," Robert's mother hissed, "for making us go through all that."

"You went through it, and that's what matters. If anyone notices suspicious behaviour or personality changes in others, report to Nicholas or Donald. In extreme cases—me. But only in person. At the Clanhall. Pay special attention to outsiders. Same goes for any trails, scents, or anything else that seems off."

Half the clan were trackers with sharpened senses—outsiders wouldn't get far on our turf now. But what if the problem was inside? Sean had come and gone last night without anyone blinking.

"The only outsiders at the moment are Duncan's guests," old man Kink reminded them. All eyes turned to me again.

"Well then, keep that in mind," said Uncle. "They're not to walk the quarter alone. One of ours will accompany them at all times."

And with that, the funeral-that-wasn't came to an end. Donald stepped down from his post at the chapel doors. A couple of sturdy lads carried out the closed coffin, loaded it onto the pickup, and drove off—leaving unanswered the question of what, exactly, had been in it. Whatever it was, McLilly was involved. I spotted him just seconds after the pickup pulled away. A knot of younger folk had already surrounded him, pestering him for answers about what had just happened. I decided to join in—especially since Sally was now being harassed by a pair of friends who flat-out refused to believe she didn't know anything.

The crowd splintered into groups and drifted back toward the quarter. Most of the men, no doubt, would end up in the pub. The day was already a write-off, they had time to spare, and speculating always went better with a pint. McLilly wasn't heading to the pub, though. He looked ready to collapse on the grass or in the middle of the road, didn't matter which. I felt a bit sorry for him and decided not to grill him for information. I prised him from the group and offered to walk him home. It was tempting to stay, but he was clearly running on fumes.

"Leave him alone, chatterboxes," I said. "He's had a rough couple of days."

"You're in on this too, Duncan! Come on—spill it. What's going on?"

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

"If I knew. He's just like Grandpa in that way—if it's not meant to be shared, then it won't be. And if you keep poking…"

I let the lads draw their own conclusions. Considering Gregor had somehow managed to be both clan chief and mentor to the younger gifted, his temper was the stuff of legend among anyone under thirty. That did the trick—the boys gave up and went off in search of someone else to pester.

"Thanks," said McLilly.

"You owe me. For example, you could tell me what song the werewolf's singing."

"He's awake?"

Right. Paranoia must run in the family. Uncle wasn't telling anyone more than he absolutely had to. Still, I was fairly certain there was a diary stashed somewhere, packed with all the juicy details—just waiting for future generations to find.

While the funeral was falling apart, I saw Bryan home—and left my guests in the care of another McLilly: Chris. Sally had dumped the baby on him, but that didn't stop the model father from minding three more. He'd turned the back garden into a kind of training camp. Chris didn't have much to offer the sorcerers, so he focused on Ellie, setting her up with sparring matches against each of the others.

He got really into it—and very quickly realised she was the only one there who actually understood what a real fight was about. Finella, for all her fury, didn't take hits to the face. Simon couldn't bring himself to strike a girl. But if there was one thing they trained every Bremorian kid to do properly, it was to hit. Warlocks, shifters—it didn't matter. Chris knew what he was talking about, and it didn't take him long to explain that there's no room for pity, politeness, or prejudice in a proper fight. If the trainer says to go full force, that's what you do.

They all nodded solemnly and said they understood.

So Chris asked if they wanted to continue, making it clear he wasn't going to hold back. A few nods in response—and then he told Simon to go all in and break Finella's nose.

Naturally, that didn't happen.

To demonstrate, Chris broke it himself—bent the redhead's nose sideways. Simon was outraged, leapt in to protect her—and promptly got knocked out. Ellie said Finella was in total shock. She'd never seen our little princess that dumbstruck.

"Spark" had her nose straightened on the spot, dosed with potions and ointments—no trace left. Except the lesson stuck: this can happen. And when Simon came round, Ellie gave him a proper thrashing. Growing up with three strapping shifter brothers, she'd long since learned not to hold back.

At first, I thought I'd join in the fun and put the uppity little shifter girl in her place—but it ended up the other way round. Since our first fight in the streets of Farnell, Ellie had gotten a lot better with her fists—and even more so with her legs. Whatever her spirit was—goat or deer—she kicked like a wild horse. Knocked the breath out of me and drained half the remaining steel from my elemental source. I swallowed my pride and moved on to meditative exercises, trying to preserve whatever essence still lingered in the energy node.

I managed to stop the leak, but that was it. The moment my concentration slipped—even for a minute—steel started to drain again. I held out until lunchtime and then gave it up as a lost cause.

Sally noticed my glum expression and asked a few probing questions. Being the kind of cousin who combined a sharp sense for weaknesses with a bit of healing magic, I decided to trust her. She examined me, flipped through a few books, and gave me the bad news.

"Your source has been severed."

"Severed? What does that even mean? A source can be empty, or dry—but severed?"

"Right, listen," she said, tapping me sharply on the forehead. "Every third eye connects to the ether. Every spiritual heart connects to the blood. That's their nature. These energy nodes just need to be opened, and they'll feed your body with elemental energy. But the source—that's different. It's like your personal place of power. Only, unlike a real place of power, which forms where elemental flows intersect, your source is built of threads. When you open your source, it fills with whatever magic you're most attuned to—where the thread is thickest. If there are a few threads of equal strength, it forms a second-order element: ice, lightning, sand. Same principles as a nexus. Only, in a nexus, the channel thickness doesn't change. But humans can strengthen their threads. Sorcerers can expand their channels until they're almost the size of the source itself—that's how they form elemental affinity. Your friends, like…"

"I know all that. Get back to the severing part."

"That's the second difference. Once the source fills, the unused threads wither and snap. Or at least, that's what Archer thinks," she said, pointing to an open book, then lifting another. "So does Chain."

"Harry never mentioned that."

"Your teacher's not all-knowing."

"Fine, but what's that got to do with me? My source hasn't filled at all."

"I think the Farrish seal deformed your source," Sally said. "It basically forced it open—and filled it."

"And over the years, all my threads withered…"

Looks like breaking that seal on the energy node was a mistake. I should've unlocked the heart instead!

I clenched my fists in frustration. So much time and effort—wasted! Sally caught on.

"A year ago you were running off to the Stones every chance you got, stubbornly battering that seal, ready to keep at it for the next thirty or forty years," she reminded me. "Now you're a wizard with decent prospects, access to more than one place of power—and this upsets you?"

I gave a wry snort. She had a point. A year ago I wasn't planning to give up—so why sulk now? Besides, the whole "thread" theory was just that—a theory. Granted, from two scholars, but still. And techniques for filling a source, the potion Auntie suggested, the grease from Sheridan—none of that came from thin air.

"Duncan?"

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how you're my favourite cousin and it's way too soon to give up. Keep my guests entertained—I'll be back."

I went home, fetched the gift-grease, and took it to Aunt Ailie's alchemy lab. She spent about an hour inspecting it—scraping off micro-particles, dissolving them in liquids, boiling them in flasks, tinkering with reservoir stones—before delivering her verdict.

"It's strong stuff. With this, I could make a potion of elemental affinity. Or a more general-purpose brew—but weaker. Problem is, the key ingredients are the same for both, and not easy to come by. I've only got enough for one batch right now. Burke's supposed to bring more—in six months."

"Is it worth waiting?"

Aside from the 'earth' nexus, there was only one place of power in the clan I hadn't visited—'water', at Thunderloch. Water's good for healing, some enhancements and weakenings, detection spells too. But did I need that? The clan could supply me with healing potions just fine. Up north, the Elphin clan had 'fire' and 'ice'. Our relations were decent—they'd probably let me in. But that'd be a favour. And favours come with a price. Also, 'earth' was the basis for steel, which Harry used.

"Waiting's your call," said Aunt Ailie.

"Then let's not."

A thought struck me. "The element itself isn't as important as having one." That was something Harry had always said. Only now did I really grasp what he meant. Water or blood, steel or earth—my path, my spells, would be different from his. That's why he kept pushing me to choose spells that would be useful. Of the twelve I'd learned, I only used one consistently—and I had it on me now.

I could see Aunt Ailie's gaze on my back as I left.

Back at Sally's, I walked straight into a surprise.

"We're going dancing!" declared Finella.

"No, we're not," I said. "There's chaos in the clan!"

"I've heard all about your little intrigue-fest," she retorted. "But today I had my nose broken, my dignity trampled, and Sally promised me."

I shot Sally a grim look.

"You are no longer my favourite cousin. From now on, that honour goes to Zoe."

The dance was held in the very barn where the council usually met. The bench-tribunes were pushed aside to make room for the musicians, a few dozen dancers, and a couple of tables offering non-alcoholic punch. The drink remained non-alcoholic—until someone inevitably slipped in a couple of bottles of whisky. It happened every single time, despite the constant "oversight" from the elder generation. I strongly suspected no one was actually keeping watch.

Thanks to the dancing—and the whisky—the clan had a reliable birth rate. Plenty of lads ended up married before they'd even had a proper go at bachelorhood. I warned the girls to be careful—and under no circumstances agree to go somewhere with a "stunning view." It was night. The stars looked just fine from the porch.

We arrived early. The musicians hadn't even started warming up yet, but the girls were already pawing at the ground like impatient mares. Among them was my cousin Evie, fluttering her lashes at Simon again. Where was Logan when you needed him? Not that the baronet was lacking attention—plenty of the girls were eyeing him.

The first notes of a fiddle rang out. A group of unpaired girls instantly fell into three neat lines, hands on hips, chests out, hiking up their skirts with high-kneed kicks—all to catch the wandering eyes of the opposite sex.

"Not quite what you're used to?" I asked Finella.

Back in the clubs of Farnell, it was all foxtrot and swing. I thought the village ceilidh might earn her disdain—but was met with childlike delight instead.

"It's wonderful!"

"Off you go," Sally ordered, giving the girls a shove toward the dance floor.

They caught the rhythm of the simple steps in no time and drew plenty of stares. The boys, as usual, hung back—punch still untainted.

The fiddle gave way to bagpipes, then a drum, a flute… Music changed, dances changed, the girls changed. Soon, a few traitorous males emerged—those rare ones who could dance sober. Then again, maybe someone had finally spiked the punch with homemade spirit. I wouldn't be surprised. We did have dancers among us. I knew we did.

Sally dragged me out for a turn when a melody she liked came on. As a married woman, she had to be selective with her partners—and Chris was still stuck with the baby. I tried to keep half an eye on our guests, in case trouble cropped up. They were far too popular with the opposite sex for comfort. I didn't even notice one bit of trouble sneaking up behind me.

A woman's voice gave a delicate little cough. I turned.

"Hello, Duncan," said Betty McLal—my first love and almost a broken heart, all rolled into one.

"Hello, Betty. How's John?" I blurted out before I could stop myself.

"We broke up."

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.