Chapter 35

Richard and I sat shoulder to shoulder in the dim, dust-scented alcove of the restricted war archive, files spread out like offerings between us. Nathan had given us provisional clearance—one hour, no copies, no digital uploads. Just two pens, two legal pads, and more paper than I’d seen in months.

The quiet wasn’t awkward. It was intimate. Intentional. Every shift of paper, every scribble of notes, filled the space between us with unspoken questions. When our fingers brushed, I didn’t flinch, but I didn’t breathe either.

“Battle transcripts,” he said, sliding a folder toward me, voice low.

“Incident reports,” I murmured, passing him one of mine in return. Our knuckles grazed.

We worked in rhythm, the kind born of long hours and deep trust. Then I found something.

“Richard.”

He was beside me in an instant.

“This is a new death report. Red Fang. But no body. Just ‘assumed deceased in hostile fire.’”

He scanned the page. “That’s convenient.”

“Look at the date. This was weeks after his last confirmed sighting.”

His arm pressed against mine. “He didn’t die. He disappeared.”

Our faces were close now. His breath was steady, mine wasn’t.

“Do you think he survived?”

“I think someone wanted us to believe he didn’t.”

I swallowed. The closeness wasn’t accidental anymore. We weren’t pretending to ignore it. But neither of us moved.

Finally, I leaned back and closed the folder, heart rattling. “We should keep going.”

“Yeah,” he said, though his voice was rougher than before.

The space between us didn’t refill.

We kept working. But we didn’t stop thinking.

We stepped out of the archive into cold hall light, blinking at the sudden brightness. Emma intercepted us halfway down the hall, her pace brisk and her expression tight.

“A delegate from Stone Ridge is missing,” she said. “Neutral pack. He didn’t check in after the regional breakout.”

I stopped mid-stride. “Missing how long?”

“Long enough,” she said. “No comms, no escort. We’re keeping it quiet for now.”

I pulled out my tablet, already scanning for recent patrol patterns. “I’ll loop in perimeter scouts and grid the search.”

Emma nodded, then paused just long enough to glance back at me. "You're good at this, you know," she said, a note of warmth in her voice. "You didn’t even hesitate. I’ve seen you grow more confident every day."

Then she turned away quickly, already calling in names over her headset.

As I moved toward the command station, Richard caught up beside me, matching my pace. He didn’t say anything—just handed me his spare map file. Our hands brushed as I took it.

It wasn’t a romantic gesture. But it was a quiet tether. A kind of knowing.

We split the map into quadrants. I coordinated the check-ins while he rerouted two patrols.

An hour later, we caught a faint signal from the edge of the western treeline.

When I reached the delegate, he was slumped awkwardly against the twisted base of a tree root, one arm dangling uselessly over his knee. His face was pale and sweat-slicked, lips cracked from dehydration. He blinked at me, confused, like he wasn’t sure if I was real.

I dropped to my knees in front of him and gently took his wrist. His pulse was erratic but present. “You’re gonna be okay,” I said, steadying my voice. “You’re safe now.”

He didn’t answer, just stared through me, as if he was still somewhere else.

“Scout,” I called over my shoulder. “Water.”

The canteen was in my hand a moment later, and I pressed it gently to the man’s lips. “Small sips. That’s it.”

He drank, trembled, and finally sagged against the bark with a breath that sounded like surrender. I stayed crouched, one hand on his shoulder, until the shaking eased.

“Can you walk?” I asked.

His eyes met mine. “I think so.”

“We’ll take it slow,” I told the delegate. “I got you.”

“Said someone tried to question him,” the scout whispered. “About voting records.”

I walked him back myself, keeping a steady pace, alert for anything in the shadows.

The whole time, I felt Richard nearby—not close enough to touch, but always in reach. Once, when the scout veered off course, we both moved to redirect him at the same time. His hand grazed the small of my back as he passed, steadying me. I didn’t react, not outwardly. But the spot burned. It wasn’t accidental. Or if it was, it still lingered.

When we regrouped at the checkpoint, I handed off the delegate to medical, and Richard stepped closer than necessary as he looked over my shoulder at my notes. "You okay?" he murmured, voice low enough that it felt like a touch.

I turned toward him. "You mean physically or professionally?"

His gaze didn’t move from mine. "I meant personally."

I swallowed, suddenly aware of the dirt on my hands and the rapid beat in my chest. "I'm managing."

His hand lingered near mine, not quite brushing. "You always do."

And just like that, the silence between us felt heavier than it had in the archive. Not strained. Just full.

If Red Fang was alive, he wasn’t just a relic. He was active. Still influencing.

I drew a thread from his name to the disbanded units—several of which now backed David. And just like that, a new possibility formed: Red Fang was alive and working behind the scenes.

Maybe even helping someone win.

It was nearly midnight when I made my way to the medical wing.

The elder healer, Saul, met me in the quiet hallway outside the exam rooms. He was older than most, with hands like bark and a gaze that had seen too much.

“There’s someone I need to ask about,” I said carefully. “He served during the war—went by the codename Red Fang.”

Saul didn’t flinch. “Feral,” he said. “But loyal. Wouldn’t talk. Just took pain like it owed him something.”

“Do you remember treating him?”

He nodded. “Long time ago. Broken rib cage. Punctured lung. Should’ve kept him two weeks, but he vanished after two days. Gone. No transport record.”

I jotted it down.

“He had eyes like a cornered wolf,” Saul added. “Didn’t look at you. Looked through you.”

When I left the wing, Richard was waiting.

“Walk you back?” he asked.

I hesitated for a second. I knew someone could see us—staff in the hall, aides on late rounds. The optics weren’t great. But then I nodded anyway.

We walked in silence most of the way. Our shoulders brushed twice.

“We’re getting close,” I said.

He didn’t hesitate. “Close to something dangerous.”

We stopped at my door.

I turned the key slowly but didn’t open it.

His hand was at his side, clenched.

“Do you ever wonder,” I said, not looking at him, “what this would feel like if none of this—” I gestured vaguely “—were happening?”

“All the time,” he said.

I finally looked at him.

He stepped forward. Not too close. But closer than he should.

“If it weren’t for this summit,” I said, voice low, “would you still be walking me to my door?”

“Yes.”

“And would you still leave?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t step back either.

He opened his mouth like he might say something, but nothing came out.

So I did it for him.

“Good night,” I said softly, even though I didn’t want it to be.

His jaw flexed. “Good night.”

I turned the handle and stepped inside, closing the door slowly. Not slamming. Not abrupt. Just enough to say: I’m letting you go—this time.

My heart didn’t settle, even as I walked to the board. I stood there for a long moment, holding the last pin in my fingers like it weighed something real.

Then I pressed it into the wall. Not into Red Fang. Not into the summit. Into me.

This wasn’t just about strategy or legacy or ghosts.

It was about what I was becoming.