Brotherhood members disperse gradually, each returning to their posts and patrols. Moira catches my arm as I move toward the door.
"Be careful at the meeting." Her voice drops low enough that only I hear. "You know what Carrick collects. Don't let him see what you're becoming. Don't meet his gaze directly. Don't let him touch you. And whatever you do, don't let him see the pendant."
I nod. Moira releases my arm, and Grayson materializes at my side.
"I'll walk you back." His statement allows no argument, and truthfully, I don't want to argue. Facing my empty cottage alone after everything tonight feels suddenly impossible.
We walk through the darkened village in comfortable quiet, the only sounds our footsteps on cobblestone and the eternal conversation between wind and wave. Grayson's presence beside me is solid, reassuring. Despite the dangers ahead, I feel safer than I have in a long time.
"You did well tonight." His voice breaks the silence as we approach my cottage. "Working with the brotherhood. Adapting."
"I've spent my whole life preparing for this without knowing it." Gran's voice echoes through memory, telling tales of seal-folk and sea magic while I sat wide-eyed at her feet. "Every research project, every paper on marine ecosystems, every grant application arguing for protecting endangered habitats. I was always going to end up here, fighting this fight."
"Maybe." He stops at my gate. "Or maybe you were always meant to come home."
Home. Not the cottage I'm renting, not the university I left behind, not even the Edinburgh flat where I grew up. This island, these waters, this community of impossible creatures who guard secrets older than memory.
"Get some rest." Grayson's hand rises as if to touch my face, then falls back to his side. "The meeting matters."
Grayson's footsteps fade into the darkness. I stand with my back against the door until I can't hear him anymore, then force myself away from the entrance and up the stairs.
Sleep doesn't come easily. When it finally does, I'm swimming through trenches where bioluminescence writes words across the dark. Almost readable. Almost understandable.But every time I get close enough to make sense of them, they scatter like startled fish.
Weak sunlight through the curtains wakes me. Gray clouds hang low, promising rain by evening. I drag myself out of bed and spend the day reviewing my presentation until my vision blurs. Cross-checking data. Rehearsing arguments. Making sure every word flows with authority I don't entirely feel.
The council chambers occupy the ground floor of the administrative building, a converted manor house with high ceilings and tall windows. Islanders already crowd the space when I arrive, their conversations creating a low buzz that fills every corner. Old Iain Stewart stands near the front, arms crossed. Angus Muir from the harbor authority talks quietly with a woman I recognize from the general store.
I find a seat near the front and pull out my laptop. My hands won't quite steady as I open files and organize notes.
Movement near the back catches my attention. Declan and Eliza slip through the entrance and find seats near the rear wall. Rafe appears along the side, leaning against the windowsill with deceptive casualness. Jax takes up position by the door, arms crossed and expression forbidding enough that people give him wide berth. Grayson settles along the opposite wall where he can see both me and the council table. Kian slouches in a back corner. Finn claims a spot near a window.
When a door at the front opens and Malcolm Carrick walks through, the temperature in the room seems to drop.
Everything about him screams money and power. Silver hair perfectly styled. A suit that probably costs more than my entire research budget. His movements are smooth and confident, like someone who's never heard the word "no" and wouldn't recognize it if he did. Not physically imposing, but he doesn't need to be. Absolute certainty radiates from him. The certainty that he'll get what he wants, that objections are just temporaryinconveniences, and that this meeting is merely a formality before his inevitable victory.
Two lawyers follow him in, expensive briefcases clutched in their hands. Behind them, a woman in a crisp blazer moves to set up a presentation display with practiced efficiency.
Carrick's attention sweeps across the room, cataloging faces, assessing positions, calculating odds.
When his gaze reaches me, it stops.
Something flickers in his expression—recognition or interest, I can't tell which. He looks at me the way someone might examine a rare artifact in a museum case—assessing value, calculating worth, determining acquisition cost.
Heat flares against my chest where the pendant rests beneath my jacket.
I turn away, busying myself with my laptop. I open files I've already opened, organize notes I've already organized. But his attention presses against my shoulders like a physical weight.
The council members file through a side door. Angus Muir from the harbor authority takes his seat alongside the others. Others I recognize from around the village—shopkeepers, boat owners, people whose families have lived on this island for generations. They settle into chairs behind a long table at the front, faces grave with the weight of what they're about to decide.
Margaret Walsh, Council Chair, enters last. A woman whose family has lived on this island since before anyone bothered keeping records. She takes her seat at the center of the table, and the room's ambient noise dies.
"We're here to consider the proposal from Maritime Development Corporation." Margaret's voice carries authority earned through decades of service. "Maritime has submitted plans to dredge approach channels and construct infrastructure that would allow larger vessels to access our harbors. We'll hear from Maritime first, then from those opposed to the project."
Carrick rises with fluid grace. His presentation is polished, professional, and devastatingly effective. Images flash across the screen showing artist renderings of a transformed Skara, prosperous and modern, with sleek marina facilities and elegant shops catering to upscale tourists. Economic projections promise jobs, revenue, a transformed future for an island that has remained isolated and economically stagnant.
"Look, change is coming. That's just reality." Carrick's voice carries conviction without pushing. "The question is whether you folks want a seat at the table or not. We're offering a partnership with jobs and a real investment." He pauses. "You turn us down, and someone else will come along. Maybe someone with fewer scruples and less interest in working with the community."
His lawyers take over then, presenting environmental impact assessments that conveniently find minimal risk. Engineering reports promise contained and responsible development. Economic analyses paint rejection as a slow decline into irrelevance.
