Chapter 127

The lockbox looked like it had been pulled from a grave. Its iron sides were eaten with rust, hinges stiff, a faint sour smell clinging to it. Nathan carried it into the strategy room and set it on the war table, his gloved hands deliberate. Richard and I leaned in while he worked the lid open with careful pressure. The squeal of the hinge sounded too loud for the hour.

Inside, wrapped in a mildewed cloth, was a seal. Bronze, dulled with time, but the lines were still visible. A circle carved through with jagged intersecting lines, the sigil I had seen in fragments before. The Hollow Council. I reached out without thinking. Richard caught my wrist gently before I touched it.

Nathan slid a vial of tracer ink from his coat. “We tag it now. Anyone who tries to move it will be marked.” He brushed the liquid across the grooves. Under lamplight the green shimmered faintly. I swallowed. Seeing it changed things. It was proof, undeniable, heavy enough to pull the air down around us.

“What do you think they decided with it?” I whispered. “What laws? What punishments? How many people carried this without admitting where it came from?”

Richard’s eyes stayed locked on the sigil. “Too many.”

Nathan wrapped the seal back in the cloth. “It’ll be secure, but if someone touches it, we’ll know.”

That night Elsa called through one of the secure lines. Her voice came thin through static. “Amelia, I need to know. The Hollow. Did you actually find something?”

Before I could answer, Richard lifted the receiver from me. “Yes,” he said flatly. “Sigils carved into stone, fragments of ledgers, even a scorched table in a hidden chamber. But nothing whole, nothing that would stand on its own. Half the time it’s smoke.” He gave her enough detail to sound convincing but shaped every word into bait.

Elsa pressed him. “So it exists?”

“Or it existed,” he replied. “We’ll see what’s left when the dust clears.”

When the line clicked off, I folded my arms. “You fed her lies.”

“She’s not the only one listening,” he said. “If those details circle back to us, we’ll know who carried them.”

I hated that it thrilled me. It should have been unnerving how sharp and calculating he was, but instead I found myself flushed with heat, thinking how terrifyingly smart he could be and how impossibly attractive that made him.

Later that evening, Richard laid out two sets of keys on the war table. One ring gleamed with new polish. The other looked identical but lighter, edges dulled. “Replicas,” he said. “The real master keys are with Simon now, locked under guard. These will stay in circulation so anyone reaching for them will tip their hand.”

“You’re trusting Simon now?” I asked.

“I trust that he's loyal and boring,” Richard answered. “And boring is what I need.”

The plan unfolded over hours. Nathan would set sensors in the record chambers. Monroe would position guards without telling them what they were watching for. I pushed for wider coverage, for a schedule of checks. Richard countered, saying we’d burn out men too fast.

We snapped at each other, then bent the map into something we both could live with. Piece by piece, our arguments smoothed into rhythm. By the time the lamps burned low and our throats were raw, the table was covered in notes and markers, every pathway accounted for. I realized then that it was the first time we had truly worked as equals. Nathan eventually excused himself to brief the others, leaving Richard and me alone in the flickering light.

When silence fell, I leaned my hands on the table. “You've been trying to make me smaller. Safer. Easier to guard.”

Richard’s voice was steady. “I want you alive.”

“I won’t be made small to fit your fear.” My heart thudded. The words felt like a dare.

He met my eyes. “Then don't let yourself be small.”

I moved before I thought, grabbing his shirt and pulling him into me. His mouth found mine hard, desperate, and I pressed him back against the war table. Maps slipped to the floor. Ink bottles tipped and rolled. His hands were on my hips, pulling me close, until the edge of the table dug into my thighs.

We didn’t fumble or hesitate. Every touch was deliberate, but urgent. I shoved his jacket off his shoulders and pulled him closer. He pushed my skirts higher, fingers steady even as his breathing went ragged.

When he pressed into me I gasped, the sudden fullness making my whole body tighten around him. For a moment I held him there, feeling the weight of him, before I rocked my hips and guided him deeper. I set the pace with my body, rolling against him, until his hands gripped me tighter and he shifted control, taking the rhythm for himself.

It wasn’t about winning, it was about not yielding. Each thrust rattled the table beneath us. I tangled my hands in his hair, his teeth grazed my throat, and for once we both allowed ourselves to want without apology.

After, I stayed pressed against him, sweat cooling, my forehead on his. “not small,” he said again, voice hoarse, as if it was the only thing holding him toghether. In that quiet I realized how long it had been, how we hadn’t touched like this since returning to the Pack House. I had missed it more than I could admit, missed him with an ache that made me hold on tighter.

The alarm shattered the quiet. A sensor shrieked from the record wing. We scrambled to pull ourselves together, papers sticking to our damp skin before falling away. My legs still trembled as we ran down the corridor.

Nathan was already there, pointing. “Seal’s been touched.” The tracer shimmered across the bronze like veins of fire.

Guards dragged a figure into the chamber. A boy, no older than twenty, his clerk’s robe hanging loose. His hands glowed with tracer, faint green against pale skin. His eyes were wide with terror. “I didn’t steal it!” he cried. “I just delivered a message. Elder Rusk told me to carry it. He said it was routine.”

Richard stepped closer, his shadow falling over the boy. “Callen Rusk told you to handle a sealed artifact?”

The boy nodded frantically. “I swear it. He said no one would question me. Please, I didn’t know what it was.”

I looked at Richard. The name sat between us, undeniable. Callen. The elder who had spoken for me in council, who had whispered that I should withdraw for optics. Now his orders glowed on another’s hands. Proof, painted in blue.

And as the boy’s sobs echoed in the chamber, I knew this was only the first layer. Callen was too careful to put his own hand on the seal. If he had sent a clerk, there would be others, messages carried in shadows, instructions whispered down corridors. The Hollow wasn’t just a myth anymore. It was reaching for us, testing how far it could go before we noticed.

I walked to the edge of the chamber and stared at the seal still glowing faintly with tracer. For a moment I thought about touching it myself, letting the ink stain me so I could carry the truth where everyone could see. My fingers twitched but I held back. Proof mattered, but so did timing. If we moved too soon, Callen would slip free. Richard’s eyes followed me and I knew he read the thought in me even before I spoke. “We wait,” I said quietly. “Not until they’ve shown themselves.” He gave a short nod. The choice bound us both.

Later, when the others filed out and the chamber quieted, I lingered at the table. The scattered papers, the smudges of ink, the faint heat from where we’d been pressed together only an hour before. All of it tangled, war and want, truth and lies. Richard came to stand beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The storm was already rolling toward us, and for now, standing level was enough.