Chapter 56
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Then I sat down and reset every clearance level below my own. I added two–factor authentication to the sensitive files and rewrote the digital access log to flag any unauthorized downloads. Just in case.
Later that afternoon, Dario texted me: Got something, Can I stop by?
He arrived with a manila folder, yellowed at the edges, and a wary look in his eye.
“This was in our pack’s archive. It’s signed by a former Clearwater elder, early ‘oos. Thought it might mean something.”
I pulled the paper out carefully. The signature at the bottom was unfamiliar, but the phrasing- stilted, formal, almost coded–matched exactly with what I’d seen in the anonymous folder from weeks ago.
“What made you think to bring this to me?”
“I remembered something you said at the session. About finding patterns in buried files. And I figured, if anyone might recognize buried language… it’d be you.”
I stared at him for a beat. “Do you mind if I make a copy?”
He nodded. “That’s why I brought it to you.”
I scanned it, encrypted the file, and sent it to one of my offsite contacts who specialized in archival decryption.
As Dario left, he glanced back over his shoulder. “I think you’re onto something bigger than a summit.”
“So do I.”
The elder council meeting took place in the estate’s inner chamber, the kind of room that smelled like dust and history and things people would rather forget. I wasn’t allowed inside, but I was stationed just outside, ready with extra printouts and my phone.
The guards stationed near the door gave me a few sideways glances, but I kept my head down and focused. I organized a last–minute folder of citations for Richard, highlighting phrases in green that I knew he preferred, and sent them in with a runner.
The voices inside were muffled, but tone didn’t need words. There was tension. Then louder voices. Then one I recognized as David’s, smooth and smug:
“-and it’s worth considering whether the presence of certain staff members compromises the neutrality of this process.”
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My stomach clenched.
Another voice followed. Female, sharp–edged, unfazed.
“From what I’ve seen, she’s the only one who asks the right questions.”
Silence followed. No rebuttal.
Then the door opened, and Richard stepped out.
I was pacing. He caught me mid–turn.
“I didn’t mean to become a liability,” I said before I could stop myself.
“You aren’t.”
His eyes didn’t waver. “You’re the reason I still believe we can win this the right way.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. But I felt the shift again–not the political one. The one between us. The one that had no name yet.
He lingered for a second longer, then went back inside.
That evening, just before midnight, my phone buzzed. One new message from my contact.
Decoded and translated. Attached below.
The letter described a list of abuses committed during the final years of the war–disappearances, blacksite detentions, unethical bonding trials. It was signed anonymously, but one name came up
more than once: Red Fang.
I sat up straighter. That name had appeared in the original anonymous folder.
I clicked through to the second page of the attachment. There were references to experiments conducted in border zones, subjects with unstable bonds, handlers referred to by animal codenames. Red Fang was listed twice, once in a footnote and once in a margin scribble: Clearwater handler. Senior. Unclear allegiance.
My hands were cold. I downloaded the file and printed it on the old machine in the hallway, then tacked it up on the wall above my desk. One page turned into two, then four. I used red thread to connect Red Fang to the elder letter, and Clearwater, and finally, reluctantly, to Richard’s name- with a question mark between them.
I stared at it until my eyes burned.
Whatever this was, it had just become bigger than me.
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Chapter 57
