The clock reads 4:47 AM when I let myself into the Archives, which means I've officially given up on sleep.
I tried. Lay in bed for three hours staring at the ceiling while Cade snored beside me and my brain replayed that whispered phrase over and over. We'll try again. What did Lyric mean? Try what again? And why did it sound less like reassurance and more like a threat?
The Archives are dark and cold this early, the heating system not scheduled to kick on for another hour. I flip on my desk lamp and the warm circle of light feels like the only safe space in the world right now. Everything beyond it—shadows and questions and the growing certainty that I'm losing my mind.
I pull out the genealogy files I've been avoiding for weeks. The Thornhart lineage charts that should be straightforward but keep nagging at me like a hangnail I can't stop picking at.
My coffee maker gurgles in the corner, filling the space with the smell of dark roast, and I spread three different Chronicles across my desk. Physical records to compare against my digital files, because if I'm going to spiral into paranoia, I might as well be thorough about it.
The Thornhart bonds go back generations. Twelve documented Alpha pairings, all meticulously recorded by historians who came before me. I've reviewed these entries a hundred times, but I've always been looking at the big picture—bloodlines, succession patterns, territorial claims.
Now I'm looking at the details. And the details are wrong.
It starts with the handwriting. Small inconsistencies that I've trained myself to notice after years of authentication work. Around the entries for Cade's grandfather, Alpha Marcus Thornhart, the script changes. Not obviously—whoever did it knew what they were doing, matched the pressure and slant almost perfectly. But the letter formations are different. The 'a' is rounder. The crossbar on the 't' sits higher.
It's my handwriting. But it's also not.
I flip to the margin and there it is, barely visible in ink so faded it's almost brown: Bonding ceremony performed under disputed circumstances. Witnesses redacted. Method: Chronicle inscription per traditional rites. Verification pending.
My hands go still on the page. Verification pending. For a bond that was supposedly confirmed three generations ago?
I start cross-referencing. Normal mate bonds in our records have a clean pattern: Recognition [date]. Bonding ceremony [date]. Witnesses [names].
The Thornhart bonds read differently. Every single one.
Bonding ceremony [date]. Recognition noted [later date]. Chronicle entry predates recognition by [varying intervals].
They're doing it backwards. The ceremony happens first, then the recognition. Like they're performing the ritual and waiting for the magic to catch up. Like they're writing the bond into existence and hoping reality will cooperate.
I grab my laptop and pull up my digital archives, fingers flying across the keyboard. The files I've been building for years, scanning and cataloging every document in this building. My backup, my insurance, my life's work in pixels and data.
The comment is still there. The one I didn't write but apparently did at 2:47 AM three days ago.
Bond formation: 2019, October 15th. Artificial construct verified iteration 72.
I type a search query: "artificial construct." Five results pop up, all in entries I have no memory of creating. All timestamped in the middle of the night. All using phrasing that sounds like me but isn't quite right.
Deteriorating bond strength. Pattern consistent across forced pairings.
Chronicle manipulation confirmed. Original records overwritten.
Finn Ashwood: Contact established. Awaiting convergence.
That name again. Finn Ashwood. I don't know anyone by that name. I've never heard it before those mysterious notations appeared. So why does it make my chest ache like I'm remembering something I've forgotten?
The heating system kicks on with a metallic groan that makes me jump. I check the time—6:15. I've been down here for over an hour and the sun is starting to paint weak light through the high windows.
I flip back to the physical Chronicle, looking for the entry that corresponds to my bond with Cade. Page 847. Six years ago this month, actually. October 15th.
The memory is crystal clear. The autumn festival, bonfire light making everything golden, and Cade across the flames looking at me like I was the only person in the world. The recognition had hit me like lightning—sudden, certain, undeniable. This man was mine. I was his. Fate had spoken.
Except I pull up my old calendar on my phone, the one I've kept meticulously since college because I've always been that person who needs to document everything. October 15th, six years ago.
I was in Seattle. At a research conference on pre-colonial pack structures. I have the hotel receipt. The conference badge photo. Email confirmations. I didn't get back to Silverpine until the 18th.
So how did our bond form three days before we actually met?
The floor seems to tilt. I set my phone down carefully, like it might explode, and force myself to breathe. There has to be an explanation. I mis-remembered the date. I mixed up the timeline. The bond happened when I got back and someone just recorded the wrong date in the—
No. I remember October 15th because it was my mother's birthday. She'd been dead two years and I'd spent the evening crying in a hotel room instead of attending the keynote speech. I have journal entries from that night, for god's sake. Pages of grief and loneliness and wishing I'd had more time with her.
I wasn't at any bonfire. I wasn't meeting Cade's eyes across flames. I was three hundred miles away, alone.
Someone wrote our bond into the Chronicles before it happened. Before we'd even met.
My coffee has gone cold but I drink it anyway, needing something to ground me. This is insane. Mate bonds don't work like this. They're biological, instinctual, real. You can't just write them into existence like you're editing a Wikipedia page.
Can you?
I'm staring at the conflicting dates when footsteps echo on the stairs. Heavy. Deliberate. I know those footsteps.
Beta Marcus appears in the doorway, looking completely unsurprised to find me here despite the ungodly hour. He's dressed like he's about to attend a board meeting—charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, that calculated perfection that makes him look more like a corporate executive than a werewolf.
"Thea." His grey eyes sweep across my desk, cataloging the open Chronicles, the laptop, my scattered notes. "Burning the midnight oil?"
"More like burning the 6 AM oil." I don't bother hiding what I'm doing. Trying to would just make me look guilty. "Couldn't sleep."
"Apparently." He moves into the room with that unsettling grace he has, like he's always three steps ahead and waiting for everyone else to catch up. "I didn't expect to find anyone down here."
"Council records are in the filing cabinet." I gesture without looking up. "Second drawer if you need the Shadowbrook treaty documentation."
"Actually, I came looking for you."
That makes me look up. He's watching me with an expression I can't read, something between concern and calculation.
"Cade asked me to check on you. Said you left the house before dawn without a word." Marcus leans against the bookshelf, casual in a way that feels anything but. "He's worried."
"I'm fine. Just had some work I wanted to finish."
"The Thornhart genealogy records." It's not a question. His gaze lingers on the Chronicles spread across my desk. "Interesting choice for an early morning project."
The air feels heavier suddenly, like the room is holding its breath. I close the Chronicle slowly, meeting his eyes. "Someone requested an updated lineage chart. You know how it is—genealogy never ends."
"No, I suppose it doesn't." He's quiet for a moment, then adds, "You're very good at what you do, Thea. The pack's memory keeper. We'd be lost without you."
There's weight in those words. Memory keeper. Like he's emphasizing it, making sure I understand that's my role. To keep memories, not to question them.
"Just doing my job," I say, and I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds.
Marcus nods slowly. "Of course. Though I hope you're not working yourself too hard. Lyric mentioned you've been having trouble sleeping. That you've been... distracted lately."
My spine stiffens. "You talked to Lyric?"
"She was in the kitchen when I arrived this morning. Sweet child." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Very perceptive for her age. She said something interesting—that sometimes she sees threads connecting people, and lately they've looked tangled."
My blood runs cold. "She has an active imagination."
"Clearly." He pushes off from the bookshelf. "Well, I should let you get back to work. Though perhaps consider taking a break. Coming home. Your family needs you."
He heads for the stairs, then pauses. "Oh, and Thea? Dr. Wen's office called. Cade scheduled an appointment for Lyric this afternoon. 2 PM. He wanted to make sure you'd be there."
"I'll be there."
"Good." He starts up the stairs, then stops again. "One more thing. These old Chronicles you've been studying—be careful with them. Some of the ink is quite fragile. It would be a shame if something happened to damage records that have survived for so long."
Then he's gone, and I'm left alone with the very clear understanding that I've just been warned.
My phone buzzes. Sera: Still alive? Lyric's having pancakes and asking why you disappeared.
Guilt crashes through me. I've been down here chasing conspiracy theories while my daughter wonders where I am. Some mother I am.
But even as I gather my things, shoving my laptop into my bag, I can't stop thinking about Marcus's words. Be careful with them. Was that concern for the Archives, or a threat about what I might find in them?
I open the locked drawer at the bottom of my desk. The really old Chronicles are stored here, the ones that predate Silverpine's founding, fragile and irreplaceable. I've always been paranoid about protecting them.
Now I'm paranoid about losing them.
I take them. All of them. If these Archives are going to burn in—I glance at my phone—less than three days now, these texts are coming with me.
I'm halfway up the stairs when it hits me. That smell. Smoke, sharp and acrid, stronger than it's ever been. I freeze, every muscle tensing, waiting for the alarm, for the heat, for the roar of flames.
But there's nothing. The Archives behind me are dark and quiet and completely not on fire.
Just that phantom smoke, so real I can taste it in the back of my throat. And underneath it, barely a whisper, barely more than a breath:
Two days.
I run up the stairs, clutching the bag of Chronicles to my chest, my heart slamming against my ribs. When I burst out into the morning light, the pack house is peaceful. Normal. Birds singing, someone making breakfast in the kitchen, the scent of bacon and coffee drifting through open windows.
Like the world isn't unraveling. Like my entire life isn't built on lies written into ancient books by someone with the power to reshape reality.
I head home to my daughter, who sees threads that don't exist and knows things she shouldn't know and whispers about trying again like we've done this all before.
And I wonder, not for the first time since this started, if maybe I'm not the one losing my mind.
Maybe I'm the only one finally waking up.