I saw him through the archive window.

It was past midnight. I had been cataloguing the final pieces—cross-referencing Petra's testimony against the Luna Accord's evidentiary standards, making sure every clause aligned, every precedent cited correctly. The kind of work that required absolute focus and left no room for anything else.

Then I looked up and he was there.

Declan stood outside the archive door. Not moving. Just standing in the corridor with his hands loose at his sides, staring at the entrance like he had walked there without meaning to and now couldn't figure out why.

I went very still.

He couldn't see me from that angle—the lamp was positioned so the light fell on my workspace but left me in shadow. I watched him through the glass. His expression was unreadable. Not angry. Not anything I could name.

He reached for the door handle. Stopped. His hand hovered there for a long moment before falling back to his side.

Then he turned and walked away.

I sat in the silence after he left and felt my heartbeat slow back to normal. My hands were steady on the table. The pendant was warm beneath my collar.

I looked down at the reading surface. The corner where I always set the candle had worn smooth over three years—a small circle of wax residue pressed into the wood grain. I had never noticed it before. Now I couldn't stop seeing it.

Evidence of presence. The archive's ghost.

I gathered my documents, locked them in the concealed drawer I had been using, and extinguished the lamp. Then I left through the side entrance and walked back to my room without passing through any main corridor.

Barnaby was waiting. I locked the door behind me and sat on the floor beside him, pressing my forehead against his warm side.

Declan had come to the archive. At midnight. Alone.

I didn't know what that meant. I wasn't going to spend time trying to figure it out.

I had three days.

---

Rowan found me the next morning near the service corridor. She was carrying a supply crate, moving with the efficient neutrality of someone who had learned not to draw attention. When she passed me she didn't stop walking, but her voice was low and clear.

"VIP suite. Every evening after pack business. Seven-thirty, latest eight."

I didn't respond. She didn't expect me to.

I went back to my room and adjusted the timeline in my head. Tomorrow evening. Not the day of the heir announcement. Not after the Council arrived. Tomorrow.

I pulled the leather case from my coat and opened it on the desk. Petra Novak's testimony. Sworn, sealed, admissible. Three packs. The rogue's name—Gregor Vane, formerly of the Blackwater Pack in Slovakia. The dates. The pattern.

I read it twice. Then I placed it back in the case alongside the pendant, the journal entry, and the list of details only the real savior could know.

Everything was ready.

I sat on the edge of the narrow bed and looked at my hands. They were steady. My breathing was even. Deep in my chest, my wolf pressed against the inside of my ribs—not painful, but insistent. Present.

I pressed my thumb against the pendant through my shirt and felt the familiar shape of it.

Tomorrow.

---

That evening I went to the pack house kitchen after the staff had left. The space was empty and cold, the industrial ovens still radiating faint heat from dinner service. I pulled flour, honey, and spices from the storage pantry and began to measure.

I had done this so many times. Every pack holiday for three years. Ceremonial cakes baked with the precision my mother had taught me, back when I still believed that if I gave enough, I would become someone worth keeping.

I wasn't baking for Declan now.

I worked in silence. The dough came together under my hands with the particular texture that meant it was right—smooth, elastic, holding its shape when I pressed my thumb into it. I shaped six small rounds and placed them in the oven, setting the timer with the same care I brought to everything.

While they baked, I cleaned the workspace. Wiped down the counter. Returned every ingredient to its exact place. When the timer rang, I pulled the cakes out and set them on the cooling rack.

They were perfect. Golden, fragrant, the surface cracked just slightly the way ceremonial cakes were supposed to crack.

I wrapped them in cloth and tied the bundle with kitchen twine. Then I carried them through the empty corridors to Rowan's quarters and set them outside her door. No note. She would know.

I walked back to my room, locked the door, and sat on the floor with Barnaby.

He rested his chin on my knee. I ran my hand over his head, slow and steady, and spoke in the low voice I used only with him.

"We're leaving soon," I said quietly. "A few more days. Maybe less."

His tail thumped once against the floor.

"I'm not afraid," I told him.

It was true. I wasn't.

Deep in my chest, my wolf stirred again—stronger this time, almost articulate. I could feel the shape of her now, enormous and patient, pressing against the cage of my ribs like something that had been waiting for exactly this moment.

Not yet. But soon.

I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. Tomorrow evening I would walk into the infirmary VIP suite. I would set the pendant on the table. I would recite every detail—the exact location of the bite, the words I whispered, the scent of blood and pine needles.

And I would watch Lana's face when the lie finally shattered.

I sat with Barnaby until my breathing slowed and my heartbeat steadied. Then I stood, checked the lock on the door one more time, and lay down on the narrow bed.

Outside, dusk was falling. Somewhere on Ironveil's eastern border, six Ashgrove warriors were moving into position around the pack house, waiting for a wolfless, unranked girl to emerge.

They had no idea what was coming.

Neither did I. Not entirely.

But I was ready.