Chapter 121

The Pack House didn’t look like home anymore.

Ash streaked along the marble floors where fire had licked through the east wing. Glass crunched under my boots, every step ringing in the hollow silence. The air smelled of wet smoke, as if the stone itself had absorbed the fire. Staff moved through the halls with plywood and plaster, voices kept low. Above us, sections of the vaulted ceiling hung open, beams exposed like ribs. Paint blistered from the walls in strange shapes, curling like old parchment. The grand chandelier that had once hung in the atrium lay shattered in pieces, its crystal prisms scattered across the floor like teeth.

Richard walked beside me without a word. His silence pressed heavier than the dust. His eyes lingered on the destruction, his jaw tight, the cords of his neck visible. I could feel his thoughts working behind that mask of control, though he gave me nothing.

At the library corridor, collapsed shelves lay across the floor, books swollen and ruined. Ash had soaked into their pages, ink bleeding into illegible pools. A young staffer with streaks of soot across her brow wrung her hands and asked when the archives would reopen. Richard answered before I could.

"When the guard corps secures the grounds. Books don't matter if the roof collapses."

Anger stirred in my chest. "Knowledge matters, history matters. If someone targeted the archives, that means they wanted to destroy that."

Murmurs rippled through the staff. Some met my eyes and nodded. Others looked to Richard. His jaw flexed as his gaze swept the room, daring anyone to contradict him.

"Order matters more. Dignity. The Pack cannot be seen scrambling like frightened pups."

"And it cannot be seen burying civilians," I said. My voice was sharper than intended, but I did not take it back. The silence that followed was worse than shouting. People shifted uneasily. I saw how their eyes darted between us. They had seen the crack, and cracks spread.

Later, I spent hours among the families sheltered in the corridors. The blankets wrapped around them still carried the acrid smell of smoke. I sat with a woman clutching her toddler, her eyes wide with exhaustion. She asked me in a trembling voice if we would have to leave again.

I promised her she would be safe here, even though I couldn't be certain. A grandmother asked about her son stationed on patrol, fearing he would be thrown into the worst of it. I reassured her, even as doubt pricked at me. Two teenagers begged for work in the kitchens, desperate to do something useful instead of sitting idle.

I assigned them to help distribute bread. A group of children huddled together in a corner, and I joined them, making silly faces until they smiled. The ache in my chest deepened. I wanted to believe my words, but I knew how fragile everything felt.

From outside came Richard’s commanding and relentless voice. He drilled the guard corps in the courtyard until their shouts rattled the walls. His tone was clipped, his presence magnetic. He spoke of strength, discipline, and honor. I spoke of safety, patience, and survival.

Both truths were necessary, but neither seemed to soothe the gap between us. The Pack was caught between two visions of leadership, and I feared which one they would cling to when tested.

We crossed paths in the stairwell near dusk. Dust streaked my clothes. His shirt clung with sweat. The narrow stone steps forced us close.

"You cannot keep blaming me," I whispered, low enough so it would not echo. "We have fought about this already."

"You made the call," he said. His hand gripped the railing until his knuckles whitened. "Every elder whispers that I abandoned our ground."

"If we had stayed, people would be dead," I shot back. "Look around you. This fire would have torn through the dorm halls in minutes. Dozens of children wouldn't have made it out."

His eyes met mine, cold as stone. A muscle twitched in his jaw. I thought for a moment he might admit I was right. Instead, he turned away, climbing the stair without another word. My chest burned with the weight of all we had left unsaid.

By evening, a newcomer arrived. Darius Gable, a contractor, stepped into the main hall with a clipboard tucked under his arm and a crew behind him. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, his smile quick, practiced, but warm.

He spoke in a steady tone, calm and confident. "We will brace this corridor tonight," he promised. "By morning it will be safe enough for families to return."

He assigned men to tasks, corrected a measurement with a quiet word, thanked a janitor who produced extra tools. People relaxed around him. They began to smile in a way I had not seen in days. I saw Richard watching. He said nothing, but I knew that look, Alpha instincts measuring whether this man was friend or threat.

Not long after, Simon called us to the cisterns. His hands were stained gray with grit. His voice was tight. "This is not fire damage," he said, showing us a handful of wet sand. "The valves were jammed with mason’s mix. Deliberate."

A staffer crouched and touched the grit between her fingers. She frowned. "This blend came from quarry shipments. It had to be placed during repairs."

The words hit like a stone in the gut. If the valves failed, the eastern quarters would have no water. They would not be able to fight fire, or even keep children hydrated. The sabotage was precise. Richard’s silence grew heavier, darker than rage. They were targeting our citizens.

That night, I wandered into the council chamber. The air was dense with dust. My boots scraped over stone. In the pale glow of emergency lamps, something white caught my eye. Chalk lines across the marble floor. Circles and slashes. Too deliberate to be meaningless.

I knelt, careful not to touch. My pulse raced. These were fresh. They meant something.

Nathan entered quietly, his eyes narrowing. "These were not here before."

Before I could respond, Richard’s voice cut the air. "Amelia."

He stood in the doorway, shadow long across the chamber. "You should be in bed."

"I can't sleep while the walls are hiding things," I said. My voice was steadier than I felt. "You of all people should understand that."

For a fleeting second, his expression softened. Then it hardened again. He crossed the room and brushed dust from the table as if setting order could erase the chaos. "I do understand," he said. "But walking alone into danger doesn't help anyone."

"If I stay in my room, the symbols will still be here," I answered. "We need to know what they mean."

He didn't argue. He stood close, his presence was heavy, his gaze was fixed on the chalk.

A tug at my sleeve startled me. One of the staff's children, soot streaked across his cheek, held something out. A burnt playing card. Scratched into its blackened surface was the same sigil from the floor.

My throat tightened. "Where did you find this?"

"Outside the kitchen," he whispered. "I thought it was lucky, but then I saw the marks."

I crouched so we were eye to eye. "If you see more, bring them to me or to Nathan. Not anyone else."

He nodded with the solemn gravity of a child taking an oath. His mother hurried forward to gather him up. I looked down at the card in my hand. The same circle. The same slashes.

Richard’s gaze lingered on the card, his mouth drawn in a hard line. I could feel the unspoken thought between us. Someone was leaving these for me to find. Someone wanted me to see them. And I already had.

The halls beyond the chamber whispered with the movement of tired staff and restless guards. I tucked the card into my pocket and felt its edges press against my thigh. The weight was small, but it didn't feel small at all. It felt like a sign, I just needed to learn how to read it.