Chapter 125

The crash of stone came first, then the shouts. I hurried down to the archive corridor, where workers had been clearing fire-damaged walls. A section of brick had collapsed inward, and dust clouded the hall. When it cleared, I saw what they had struck: a narrow tunnel sealed behind centuries of brickwork, the surface marked with faint chalk sigils that had survived even fire. Some were circles within circles, others were jagged symbols I half recognized from marginal notes in old council ledgers. They looked like warnings, or permissions, and their presence made my stomach turn.

We followed the crew’s lantern light into the dark. The air inside tasted of smoke and damp earth. Short stools ringed a scorched table, as though people had gathered here often. I brushed my fingers over the surface, ash crumbling at my touch. Ledger fragments lay scattered, fragile with age. Nathan lifted one carefully, and my heart lurched when I saw the torn edge of a letter, addressed in careful script: To Amelia.

My name.

The handwriting was identical to the fragments I had collected from the storage rooms and discarded boxes: one had been a receipt with notes in the margin about troop supplies, another had been a scrap with instructions on medicinal herbs, another a page of prayers copied from the old temple texts, and a fourth was a reprimand directed at a soldier who deserted. I had kept them hidden, unsure who had written them. I once suspected they might be my father’s, but never trusted that thought. Now, with my name written on the page, everything shifted. The words blurred as my eyes filled. My lineage was not just a rumor. It had been threaded through Pack history in plain sight, and I had been blind to it.

My knees nearly gave out. Richard caught me, strong hands steadying my shoulders, guiding me to the stool. “Breathe,” he murmured. His voice was firm, not gentle, but it anchored me. He counted with me, one breath at a time, until I could blink the tears back enough to read again.

“My father’s name,” I whispered, voice shaking. “It's not here. It’s been erased. Scrubbed clean from history.”

Richard’s gaze lingered on me, heavy with something I couldn't name. He didn't argue. He didn't tell me it was my imagination. He just held me there until the tremors passed.

By the afternoon, word had already spread. Staff whispered about Amelia’s secret room, and no matter where I went eyes followed me.

Then, the last person I expected to see showed up. In the south hall, Adam found me cornered by the railing. His smirk carried the same cruelty I remembered too well. “So, do you have a wolf after all? Or maybe you’ve just been lying this whole time. Clearly your parents mattered. You’re not just some worthless orphan anymore.”

I stiffened, jaw tight, but he leaned closer, voice dropping to a sneer. “That little sob story of being an undertow isn’t going to work much longer. Everyone can see you’ve been hiding more than you admit.”

I wanted to slap him, to scream, but my body locked. He turned away before I could find words, and I watched him fall into step with Jenny down the hall. Her head bent toward his, listening. My chest clenched so tight I could barely breathe. I could not unravel Adam anymore. Every move he made, every cruel word, left me more confused than the last.

Richard dusted the tunnel with fine UV powder that evening, his motions precise, his jaw tense. “No one walks in or out without us knowing,” he said. Nathan nodded and stationed undercover guards along the executive halls.

But the night gave us no peace. In his study Richard pressed me again. “We need to show them what we’ve found. Evidence matters more than rumor. Half of this Pack is already doubting us. The longer we sit on it, the weaker we look.”

I snapped back, louder than I meant. “Half-truths will ruin us faster. None of this matters when a literal war is going on. You don't even think my history is part of this, so why do you care?”

He froze, eyes flaring. “I told you I didn't mean that.”

“Yeah, well, I know you did.” The words shook as they left me, but I didn't back down. The argument spiraled, voices raised and brittle, until finally he left the room with anger in his stride and silence heavy in his wake.

When dawn came, the UV powder glowed under the lamps. Boot prints, clear and deliberate, tracked not only to the tunnel but straight to the hallway outside my office. Richard stared at them, face darkening. Nathan followed the line with grim precision. There was no mistaking the pattern.

Darius. The tread matched the brand of boots he always wore, the indented logo plain in the glow of the UV powder. His size, his stride. His shadow already stretched over every corner of this house.

Later, Mira found me in the library, her hands clutching her sketchbook. She admitted quietly, “I saw him last night. Near the executive wing. Said he was checking for cracks in the foundation.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, fear plain. We both knew he was building more than walls. He was building pathways through our lives, and every step echoed with Hollow whispers.

Richard

I should have been studying the prints Nathan revealed, or drafting a statement for the council. But all I could think about was the way Amelia trembled when she read that letter. The careful ink had darkened where tears fell from her lashes. Her breath had gone ragged in my hand as I steadied her. She whispered about her father being erased, and I wanted to tear down every wall until I found the name for her.

The war was pressing in on us from every border. Elders circled like vultures. Yet all I could feel was how badly I wanted her. I had been sharp with her lately, sharper than I meant to be. It was not only politics clouding me. It was her. It was the way she ignored her own beauty, the way she leaned into me for stability but pulled back before I could keep her there.

I wanted her so badly that it made me cruel. I said things I regretted, if only to put distance between us. I told myself she needed space to uncover her past, to breathe without my shadow over her. But when she was near, the urge was unbearable.

She had been preoccupied, chasing clues and secrets, and I had not dared push her further. What kind of man took advantage while war burned outside our doors? I would not be that man. Yet sometimes, when she tilted her head just so, when her scent brushed past me, I felt like I couldn't control myself. My wolf howled for me to claim her every second, to mark her. I gritted my teeth and held the leash tighter.

I knew she wouldn’t turn me away if I reached for her. What ate at me was that since we’d come back to the Pack House, I’d been holding back. I didn’t want to push when she was buried in discoveries and the weight of war. I wasn’t even sure if she’d noticed how long it had been. The wanting made me sharp. I let it bleed into my words, turned desire into frustration, and she felt it. She thought I didn’t care about her past, but the truth was I couldn’t stop thinking about her future, and how much I wanted to be in it. How badly I wanted to get down on one knee and make her mine forever.