Chapter 38

The morning broke to whispers—thick, low murmurs curling through the halls of the council chamber. Adam’s name hovered like smoke in the air, never spoken too loud, never spoken too soft.

Officially, it was a “health-related withdrawal.” Unofficially, everyone knew better. The word ‘resigned’ wasn’t used, but it echoed anyway, traveling room to room like a ghost in a hall of mirrors.

I walked the length of the east corridor, documents clutched in one hand, silence in the other. The door to Richard’s office was still closed. I slid the talking points I drafted—clean, neutral, firm—under the frame and moved on before anyone could ask questions. Let them wonder who wrote the words. Let them guess.

Richard and Nathan were locked behind another set of doors, no doubt trying to distance the administration from the fallout. Adam had always been a convenient piece. Now he was a liability, and the game had changed. The council wanted stability, not scandal. And in a summit already strained by tension, even whispers had weight.

Across the compound, Emma confirmed what I already suspected: the metadata trail we uncovered traced straight to an offsite cluster, buried in the infrastructure of one of David’s dummy shell companies. It wasn’t even subtle. Bold. Arrogant. Like he never imagined someone like me would be the one to find it. That was the mistake, wasn’t it? Thinking I was invisible.

“Beta’s preparing a full statement,” Emma told me. “Council gets the report at midday.”

“Good,” I said, sliding my coat back on. “Let’s make sure the projector works.”

The air felt thick with consequence. Every hallway I passed through hummed with it. I moved like a blade slicing water, measured, deliberate. People looked up when I walked by. Some nodded. Some didn’t.

I wandered through the main forum wing on instinct more than purpose. The sunlight pooled through the high windows like amber wine, casting long shadows along the corridor floor. An informal discussion had broken out—regional logistics, mid-tier alliances, the usual fodder between sessions. But the tone felt different. Less casual. More charged.

I kept my pace slow, casual. And still, they found me.

“Amelia?”

I turned. A middle-aged Alpha with sharp eyes and a sharper jaw stepped toward me. Two others followed. All of them looked like they had opinions. I braced myself for it.

“What are your thoughts on decentralizing communication access between minor packs?” one asked.

I gave them my answer—measured, intentional. Then another stepped in, pushing the conversation into succession laws. I could see the trap they were laying. I stepped around it. My stance held, but so did their scrutiny. The tension in the room shifted the moment I refused to defer to any of them.

Finally, a silver-haired elder with a smirk said, “You speak well. But at the end of the day, you’re still just another pawn on the board.”

I looked him dead in the eye.

“Then it’s time someone flipped the board.”

The room fell silent. His lips parted, but no words came. The others looked at one another, unsure if they’d just witnessed a misstep or a declaration of war. One of them looked almost amused. I didn’t wait for either. I left them in the echo of my words.

The butler—Samuel, I’d learned—was polishing a brass railing near the service entrance when I found him. He looked up with a soft smile, already knowing why I’d come.

“You had a question,” he said.

I nodded. “The woman in the photo.”

He set the cloth aside gently. “Elena Clearwater.”

My breath caught. The name. It had always felt like she lived in the negative space between facts. A ghost with no label. But here it was, spoken aloud like something sacred.

“She was a medic,” Samuel said. “Brave. Brilliant. She didn’t just treat wounds. She changed people.”

“How?” I asked, the word fragile in my throat.

“She made them believe healing was possible. Even when the war made monsters out of men.”

I swallowed. “Did you know her well?”

“Well enough to remember how she carried herself,” he said. “With purpose. With conviction. Like she wasn’t afraid of the blood because she believed in the people underneath it.”

I nodded slowly, then thanked him. My voice barely carried. The name rang in my chest like a bell.

Not an hour later, I was summoned to the infirmary. Elder Thorne, who’d collapsed again early in the summit, had asked for me specifically.

The light in the room was low. Clean. His eyes were open and alert, though his skin looked pale, like it belonged to someone halfway between two worlds.

“That locket,” he rasped, gesturing faintly toward my collar. “It looks like one I saw long ago.”

I touched it unconsciously. “It was my mother’s.”

His mouth lifted in the ghost of a smile. “She would be proud. I’ve watched you speak. You don’t talk like someone chasing power. You talk like someone who wants to protect people.”

I swallowed. I didn’t have a reply.

“We’ve had many kings,” he added. “Few protect the way your Alpha does. That might matter more than titles.”

I thought of Richard—his steadiness, his quiet wariness, the way he didn’t reach for things until he was sure he wouldn’t break them. And I thought of how he’d stood beside me without making it about him. About us.

Thorne’s hand found my wrist as I stood to go. His grip was light, but urgent.

“If you want answers,” he said, “ask about the Red Sentries. And ask soon.”

The way he said it made my pulse skip. I wanted to ask more—who the Red Sentries were, what they did, and why the urgency—but before I could open my mouth, a nurse stepped into the room, her tone gentle but firm as she informed me it was time for his medication. Thorne gave a slow nod, and his hand slipped from mine. I stood reluctantly, offering a small smile that he returned with something quiet and knowing. The questions burned in my throat as I left, unspoken but alive.

The package was waiting when I returned to my suite.

A single pressed flower. Fragile, nearly crumbled to dust. And beneath it, a note written in thin, sharp handwriting:

Red Fang was never one of us.

I pinned it to the map beside the sector routes, letting my fingers linger a moment too long. My hands trembled slightly. Not from fear. From knowing I was closer to something. To what, I still didn’t know.

What did it mean? Was it a warning? A denial? A trick?

I stared.

And stared.

Until the lines on the page blurred into fog.

When the knock came, it was soft but certain.

Richard stood at the threshold, a worn file in his hand and a shadow under his eyes. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. His tie was gone. He looked like someone who had been up all night chasing the truth and found only more questions.

“There’s more,” he said, stepping inside. “And it points to David.”

I didn’t ask how he knew. I just cleared the floor. A silent agreement settled between us, woven through too many shared glances and almosts.

We sat side by side, knees brushing, the papers spread between us like battle plans. His shoulder pressed against mine—warm, unmoving. Neither of us pulled away. Somewhere under the table, our legs touched. And stayed.

“Do you ever wish we’d met under different circumstances?” I asked, eyes on the page in front of me.

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was almost a whisper. “I only wish we’d had more time.”

I looked up. So did he.

And for a long moment, that was all we did—look.

Outside, storm clouds gathered above the compound. A low rumble rolled in the distance, and the shared door between our adjoining rooms stayed cracked open.

But we both noticed when the wind pushed it open just a little more.

A line was waiting there.

And we were getting closer to it.