The archive smells of dust and iron, old parchment and secrets that refuse to die. Lyra moves slowly among the towering shelves, fingertips brushing the edges of yellowed scrolls. Something is here—something the council never wanted her to see.
Caelan watches her from the shadows. His wolf prowls beneath his skin, restless, threatening to break through the suppression that still chains it. He wants to step closer, wants to claim, wants to warn—but he cannot. Every fiber of him screams.
"You're too quiet," he murmurs, voice low, carrying just enough through the bond to make her shiver.
Lyra doesn't look at him. "Silence is safer here," she replies. Her hands shake slightly—not from fear, but from anticipation. She pulls a leather-bound journal from a hidden compartment. Its pages are brittle, the ink dark and intentional.
As she reads, her breath catches. The council's words are clear: her execution wasn't punishment. It was orchestration.
Every sentence drags a shadow across her mind:
The order came from someone she trusted.
Her death was part of a ritual—a test of loyalty and control.
Caelan's memory wasn't entirely lost; fragments had been tampered with, manipulated to ensure obedience.
Lyra lifts her head, eyes meeting Caelan's in the dim torchlight. He tenses. The bond flares violently, even under the council's suppression.
"You see it too," she whispers, voice trembling. "It wasn't… just punishment."
Caelan steps closer involuntarily, body rigid. His hands twitch, fingers flexing like claws. His wolf presses hard beneath the surface, coiling, desperate, sharp.
"You should not know this," he growls, voice thick with restrained obsession. "It's dangerous. For you. For me."
Lyra tilts her head, a dangerous smile playing at her lips. "I know exactly what I should do… and exactly who I should trust."
The bond pulses between them, hot and suffocating. Caelan swallows hard. He can feel her heartbeat—fast, defiant, alive. The wolf inside him snarls, wants her fully, wants to mark, wants to possess.
She takes a step closer. Testing. Provoking. Daring him to break.
"Step back," he says, teeth gritted. "Do not test me."
Her fingers hover inches from his chest. The air crackles. The suppression falters in a surge of heat and need. Her pulse spikes—he feels it through the bond—and it makes his jaw clench violently.
"You're afraid," she whispers, "of what you'll do to me."
"I am," he admits, voice raw, trembling. The wolf hisses beneath his ribs, clawing at his control. Every muscle strains to move toward her, to claim her, to punish and protect simultaneously.
Her hand brushes just above his heart, close enough to ignite him but not to touch. The surge of the bond, the proximity, the fear, the memory—it all hits at once. Caelan stumbles slightly, gripping the edge of the shelf to steady himself.
Lyra watches him, eyes dark, heart pounding. "Next time," she murmurs, "you won't have a chance to pull back."
He knows she's right. His breath comes ragged, pupils dilated. Every nerve is alive, trembling, begging, screaming. And the truth—the secret that just came to light—only intensifies the obsession.
The council never wanted her alive.
But now that she is…
The real danger is not them.
It's him.