Chapter 6: The Thief in the Pantry

“Forty barrels paid for. Twenty-five delivered,” Lyra whispered. “Mara, where did the other fifteen go?”

Mara looked up from the storeroom floor, where she was sitting with a candle and a half-eaten pie. “Down a very large steward’s throat?”

“Pike is thin.”

“Then he has a very large wagon.”

Lyra laughed under her breath. She sat on a barrel with her charcoal and a plank of wood and went through the numbers one more time.

It was just past midnight. The pack slept. The King slept. Even the wolves had finally stopped howling.

But the numbers did not sleep. They screamed.

Flour. Salted meat. Honey. Butter. Silver.

Silver? said Ember.

The Alpha’s treasury list. Hadley Pike writes the receipts. Last month, he marked three chests of silver as sent to the northern forts. Lyra tapped the plank. There are no northern forts that need silver.

Maybe he is paying warriors.

Then why does every warrior in this pack own a rusted sword?

Ember growled thoughtfully.

“Mara,” Lyra whispered. “Do you hear that?”

Mara froze. “Hear what?”

“Wheels.”

They both held their breath.

Somewhere outside, very faintly, a cart creaked across stone.

Lyra blew out the candle. “Come.”

“Where are we going?”

“To catch a thief.”

“Lyra, that is a terrible idea.”

“I know. Come anyway.”

They slipped out the back door of the kitchen. The night air was freezing. A thin moon hung above the mountains. Lyra pulled her shawl over her hair and crept along the wall, Mara hissing behind her.

The sound led them around the barn, past the stables, to the back gate of the pack grounds.

A wagon stood there under a lantern. Four men in dark cloaks were loading it with sacks, barrels, and iron-bound chests. Another man stood over them, pointing and giving orders.

A thin man. A velvet coat. Ink on his fingers.

Hadley Pike.

Mara clapped a hand over her own mouth.

There it is, said Ember.

Lyra crouched behind a stack of firewood. Her heart was racing, but her mind was perfectly clear. This was the moment before the deal closed. She knew this moment.

Count everything, she told herself. Everything.

Twelve sacks of flour. Six barrels. Two chests that clinked when they were lifted. And a long wooden crate stamped with a silver wolf, the Alpha’s own seal.

“Faster,” Pike snapped. “The buyers want this by dawn.”

“What about the guards, sir?” one man asked.

“Brannock’s warriors are drunk. The King’s guards are in the guest wing. Nobody is watching the back gate.” Pike’s smile was thin and satisfied. “Nobody ever does.”

“And if someone checks the books?”

“They will find what I write.” He chuckled. “I have been stealing from Silverfang for six years. Do you think I would leave a trail?”

Lyra clenched her fists.

Six years, she thought. While omegas starved in the kitchens. While children went without winter boots.

Be careful, said Ember.

I am always careful.

You are shaking.

That is rage. It is not the same thing.

Mara tugged her sleeve. “Lyra,” she breathed. “We have to tell the King. He is right there in the guest wing. He is the only one who can stop this.”

“If we run to him now, Pike will say we are lying. Two omegas against a steward. He will have us in the cellar before sunrise.”

“So what do we do?”

“We take proof.”

“How?”

Lyra’s eyes landed on the long wooden crate with the silver wolf. A corner had come loose. Inside, she could see rolled parchments, ribbons, sealed wax.

“Records,” she whispered. “He is carrying his own ledgers. He is stealing the evidence so nobody can find it.”

“That is the most stupid thing I have ever heard.”

“No. It is the cleverest. He is selling the records to a buyer who will bury them.”

Her mind spun. If I take one page from that crate, one signed page, I can prove everything.

It is too dangerous, said Ember.

It is the only chance we have.

Lyra—

Ember. I need you to be quiet.

Ember fell silent. Not offended. Just worried.

Lyra slid forward on her belly across the frozen ground. Her heart pounded in her ears. Ten feet to the wagon. Eight. Five. The men were laughing and arguing over a heavy sack. Pike’s back was turned.

Three feet.

She stretched out her fingers. The crate was just above her. She slid a single parchment from the loose corner, then another. Each one bore the Alpha’s seal and Pike’s neat hand.

She tucked them into her bodice.

Then she started crawling backward.

A twig snapped under her knee.

Every head turned.

Mara made a tiny squeak from behind the wood stack. Lyra froze in the dirt. The lantern light swung toward her.

“Did you hear that?” one man muttered.

“Rat,” said another.

“Big rat.”

Pike’s voice came, soft and thoughtful. “Search the wall.”

Run, said Ember.

I cannot. If I run, they will see me.

Then think.

Lyra’s eyes flicked to the barn. To the haystack. To the single lit lantern hanging above Pike’s wagon.

She picked up a pebble.

She threw it as hard as she could. It struck the lantern. The glass cracked. The flame sputtered and went out.

Darkness.

“What the—”

“The light! Somebody relight it!”

Lyra and Mara bolted. They flew across the yard, around the barn, through the kitchen door. They slammed it behind them and dropped to the floor, gasping, laughing, trembling.

“You are insane,” Mara wheezed.

“I got the pages.”

“You are completely insane.”

“And you love me for it.” Lyra pulled out the parchments. Her hands were shaking. By the dim light of the hearth, she read the top one.

Her smile died.

It was not a list of flour. It was a letter. A short letter, in careful handwriting, signed with a wax seal she had seen on Celeste’s father’s table.

The omega Lyra is not a wolfless orphan. She is the daughter of the Moon Priestess. Do not let her reach the King. Do not let her reach Highmoor. If she lives, we all die.

At the bottom was one line more.

Burn this after reading. —H.P.

Behind her, the kitchen door creaked open. A cold hand closed over Lyra’s mouth, and a smooth voice breathed in her ear, “Hello, little accountant.”