Chapter 5

Michael and I decided to go back home. We had applied for an apartment close to the campus, but we were yet to receive any feedback. This was to ensure we could carry out our investigations easily, without raising any suspicions.

As we crossed the barrier, we noticed some members of the pack silently discussing something. With our wolf senses, it wasn’t hard to eavesdrop.

From what little I heard, there had been an attack earlier.

I got home alongside Michael. On stepping in, I noticed my father seated in front of the elders, deep in discussion. I watched as they adjourned the meeting.

I was deeply curious about what was going on. Michael had already speculated that it was an attack from another pack. I, on the other hand, had no clue.

We watched as my father stepped out, his expression one I was unable to decipher. He stared at me with exhaustion in his eyes.

I couldn’t help but ask, “Dad, what’s going on?” I said quietly as I watched his reaction.

Something shifted in his demeanor as he replied, “A member of our pack was attacked a few hours ago.”

“Any idea who it was, or at least what pack they belonged to?” I asked, curiosity filling my thoughts and written clearly on my face.

“The member of the pack has no recollection of who attacked them,” my father added, but then immediately said “Elena, my brave one, I have some things to do. I’ll catch up with you,” he said, already turning away.

I remained rooted where I stood, unease settling deep in my chest. He hadn’t just avoided my questions. He had closed himself off, as though whatever burden he carried was one he intended to bear alone.

I turned to Michael. His face was as blank as ever, but the tension in his posture told me he sensed it too. Something was wrong.

I walked to my room, my thoughts racing as Michael and I quietly began making plans on how we would join the group, whatever it was they were preparing for.

The next day came, and we had a pretty normal day. Once classes were over, Michael and I drifted through the campus in search of where the enrollment was taking place.

When we finally found it, the location did little to ease my unease. It was an old classroom, the air thick with dust and neglect. As we stepped inside, the room fell into an unnatural hush, eyes turning toward us with open curiosity and something colder beneath it.

One face stood out immediately.

Jameson.

He noticed me and offered a faint smile, as though we shared something unspoken. I met it with my usual cold expression and looked away, irritation crawling beneath my skin. I did not like that he was here.

We approached the woman taking down names. Her voice was steady as she asked us to introduce ourselves. I said my name. When Michael followed, her expression faltered for just a moment before she forced it back into place.

Michael noticed it too. We said nothing.

We took our seats as the murmurs around us grew softer, heavier. When the meeting began and the announcement of new members was made, I had the unsettling feeling that we had stepped into something far bigger than we were meant to.

The group leader stepped forward, his expression calm and his demeanor scholarly yet bold. It was obvious he was deeply passionate about forgotten history.

He audibly cleared his throat, silencing the murmurs around the room. “This association focuses on ancient conflicts, lost civilizations, and the events history chose to forget,” he said. “We analyze myths, inconsistencies, and records that do not quite add up.”

He paused, allowing his words to settle.

“To be enrolled, you will need to be assessed to determine whether you possess what it takes. The intellectual discipline this group demands is not for everyone.”

Names were called one by one. The questions were deceptive, twisted in a way designed to throw participants off balance. Some were rooted in human history, which Michael and I had taken care to study extensively.

Ancient wars with no surviving victors. Civilizations that vanished overnight. Legends dismissed as folklore despite recurring patterns across continents.

When my name was called, I stood, wearing a stoic expression.

“Why do you believe certain histories were erased?” he asked.

“Because some truths were too dangerous to preserve,” I replied carefully.

His eyes lingered on me, sharp with interest, but he said nothing. He then shifted to questions centered on human history, which I answered without hesitation.

Michael’s assessment followed. His responses were precise, analytical, almost too precise. The leader studied him longer than the others before finally giving a brief nod.

Around us, some students looked visibly confused by the questions posed, as if the discussion skirted the edges of conspiracy.

By the time the assessments ended, the atmosphere in the room had changed.

I understood one thing clearly.

This association did not exist to uncover history.

It existed to circle around the edges of it without ever crossing the line.

That realization intrigued me.

The group leader then read out the names of those he deemed worthy of acceptance, offering brief apologies to the rest. I was quietly impressed when both Michael and I made the list.

We were each handed a card with our names printed on it. It served as identification, proof of our membership in the association.

I noticed a small number printed beside our names. Level One, which we were later told determined the amount of access granted to each member.

This did not discourage us. If anything, it only fueled our determination to work harder and earn a higher level. Besides, we still had some degree of access.

The meeting was largely focused on welcoming the new members, as well as introducing the various positions within the association and the duties attached to them.

As I listened to the leader speak, I could not shake the unsettling feeling of being watched.

Slowly, I turned, scanning the room.

I saw no one.

The meeting finally came to an end, and we stepped out into the dim corridor.

“We’ll check the history library,” I said quietly. “At least we gained access to it. Even if it’s limited, it’s still something.”

Michael studied my expression for a moment before shrugging. “Alright. Lead the way.”

The library was older than the rest of the campus, its walls lined with shelves warped by time and neglect. Dust clung to everything, thick enough to dull the scent of paper and ink. The silence inside felt deliberate, as though the room itself was guarding what little it held.

We searched for hours. Records of ancient wars ended abruptly. Timelines fractured without explanation. Entire centuries were reduced to vague footnotes and missing pages. Every trail we followed led to the same dead end.

Whatever truth once existed here had been carefully stripped away.

When we finally stepped back outside, frustration weighed heavy in my chest.

That was when I saw him.

Jameson stood a short distance away, leaning casually against the wall as if he had been waiting. His gaze met mine instantly, sharp and knowing, a faint smile playing on his lips.

I stiffened.

He hadn’t followed us by accident.

He approached us at an unhurried pace, as if he had nowhere else to be.

“I knew the name sounded familiar,” he said softly, his eyes never leaving Michael. “I knew it the moment I heard it.”

“Widders.” he said slowly, his gaze fixed on Michael.

My stomach twisted violently.

‘Widders’ wasn’t just Michael’s name.

It was my mother’s surname.