Mag-log inSelene’s POVI read the message three times.Four hundred and fifty years ago.A record with two names.One intact.Avery.I look at the kitchen table.At Corvin eating toast. At Bren with her coffee. At Bowen reading something he has produced from his coat pocket without anyone noticing when he took it out. At Lucian beside me, who has not yet seen the message.I show him.He reads it.He looks at me.“Four hundred and fifty,” he says.“Yes,” I say.“Pre-consolidation,” he says.“Before the territories were formalised,” I say. “Before Ironveil was officially a territory. Before any of the governance structures we have been working within.” I pause. “Nara found an Avery four hundred and fifty years ago.”“One name damaged,” he says.“Yes,” I say.“The other one,” he says.“We do not know yet,” I say.Bowen puts down whatever he was reading.He looks at me.He looks at the phone in my hand.“Tell me,” he says.I tell him.He is quiet for a long moment.“Four hundred and fifty years,” h
Selene’s POVI wake at five.Not because of the alarm. Because the morning has something in it that requires being awake for, the specific quality of a day that knows what it contains and is waiting for the people inside it to catch up.I lie still for a moment.Then I get up.I dress quietly. I go downstairs. I make tea, not coffee, because this morning feels like a tea morning in the way that some mornings announce their specific requirements without being asked.Two mugs.I carry them through the side entrance and out into the May morning.The grounds are wet with dew. The mountains are doing their five-fifteen thing, which is being the deep blue of something that is about to become itself, the colour that exists for only twenty minutes before the sky commits to morning.I go to the bench.I sit.I put the second mug beside me.I wait.Bren comes at five-thirty.I did not tell her I would be here. I did not need to. She came through the side entrance the way people come through doo
Lucian’s POVThat evening, after dinner, after Bren has been shown to a room and Corvin has gone to bed and Mara has gone back to the settlement and the house has settled into its nighttime quiet, Selene goes to the library.I follow.She takes the continuation record from the shelf.She sits in Bowen’s chair.She opens the notebook to the first page.It already has writing on it.The first entry I made in October, documenting what the record is and why it exists and what it is continuing. I wrote it in the practical language of a governance record, establishing the context, because that is how governance records begin and I had been thinking of it as a governance record.She looks at it for a long moment.Then she looks at me.“I want to rewrite page one,” she says. “Keep what is there. But add something before it.”“An epigraph,” I say.“Yes,” she says. “The seven words. Before anything else. Before the context and the dates and the governance language.” She pauses. “The seven words
Selene’s POVI read the three messages.Then I hand the phone to Lucian so he can read them.Then I look at Nara’s name on the screen and I call her before I have fully decided to, because the three parts of that message and the word intact sitting at the end of the third one require a voice rather than a screen.She picks up immediately.“The names are intact,” I say.“Yes,” she says.“Show me,” I say.“I am sending a photograph now,” she says.I wait.The photograph arrives.An old document. Much older than the fifty-year record. Older than the three-hundred-year record. The paper has the specific quality of something that has survived by being kept well in a place that understood what it was keeping, the amber-brown of extreme age but intact, the ink faded but legible.In the center.A bond filing.Four hundred years old.And the names.Not removed.Not partial.Full names.I read them.I read them again.I look at Lucian.He has read them on my screen.He looks back at me.“Nara,”
Lucian’s POVI bring the founding record.I do not know why Selene wants it until I walk into the kitchen and see the woman sitting across from her, silver-haired, upright, with a folder on the table and an expression that belongs to someone who has arrived at the end of a long journey and found the destination was not what they expected and is larger than they prepared for.I look at Selene.She looks at me.“Sit down,” she says. “I will explain. But I need you to open the founding record to page one first.”I sit.I open the book.Page one.Calla’s handwriting.This is the record of Ironveil’s founding. Set down by Calla Avery, in the year of the territory’s establishment, for the people who come after us and will need to know where they come from.I have read this before.I have read it many times.But Selene is looking at me with the specific expression she has when something has clicked into place that she needs me to see, and so I read it again, slowly, and I look for whatever s
Selene’s POVI look at the message.Her name was Bren.I look at the woman across the table.At her silver hair and her upright posture and the bag she carried in with the folder inside it and the forty years she has been keeping things that did not belong to her to destroy.She is looking at me.She reads something in my face.“What,” she says.I show her the phone.She reads it.She reads it again.She sets the phone on the table carefully, the way you set something down when your hands need to be empty for a moment.“Nara,” I say. “The historian. Caden’s partner. She has been tracing the Avery genealogy since April.” I pause. “She found Ayla’s parents’ records in the western territories.” I pause. “Her mother’s name.”“Bren,” the woman across the table says.“Yes,” I say.She looks at the folder on the table.She looks at her hands.She looks at me.“I did not know,” she says. “When I came here. I did not know about the genealogical records. I did not know there was an Ayla Avery i
I do not sleep well.This is not new. Sleep has been a negotiation since the rejection, something I have to coax and bargain with every night. Some nights I win. Other nights I lie in the dark staring at the ceiling of my small room on the third floor and wait for morning to come and end the argume
I tell myself I imagined it.The smile. The way his eyes found me like he was looking for me specifically, like I was the thing in the room he had come to see. I tell myself it was nothing, the natural curiosity of a man arriving somewhere new, cataloguing faces the way Alphas do. It meant nothing.
The coffee is always two sugars, no cream.I know this the way I know which floorboard outside his bedroom creaks, which window in the east corridor sticks in the rain, which light switch needs two tries before it catches. Small, useless knowledge that my body collected without my permission. Three
I have a rule about crying in front of people.I do not do it.Not in front of Mara, who would hold me and mean well and somehow make it worse. Not in front of the pack members who whisper when I pass. Certainly not in front of Lucian Blackthorn, who forfeited the right to my tears the moment he s







