The storm did not break.
It lingered.
Thunder rolled distantly across the territory without rain, the sound low and sustained, as though the land itself was clearing its throat rather than threatening release. Aurelia stood at the narrow window of the council's archive wing, watching the sky darken by degrees instead of moments.
That, too, felt deliberate.
"You shouldn't be here," the archivist said quietly behind her.
"I was invited," Aurelia replied without turning.
The woman hesitated. "By whom?"
Aurelia finally looked back. "By the truth."
Silence followed.
The archive wing was older than the council hall—older than the current pack structure, older than most of the laws the elders clung to so fiercely. Its stone walls bore marks from before record-keeping was formalized, before authority had been centralized and smoothed into something presentable.
This was where uncomfortable things were kept.
The archivist exhaled slowly. "They won't like this."
