The air in the Historical Society hall was old. Lemon oil. Dusty paper. Dead flowers.
It was the smell of preserved power.
Stern Alpha portraits watched them walk. Victor's hand burned on Elara's back. His scent—ozone and winter—cut the stale air. Her jasmine was sharp with bergamot. Ready.
They stopped before a horseshoe table. Twelve old faces stared back. In the center sat Beatrice Croft. To her right was Charles Davison. He didn't stand.
"Mr. Sterling. Ms. Whitethorn," Beatrice's voice filled the silence. "Take the seats provided."
Two simple chairs waited. The supplicant's spot. A power play.
Elara smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "We'll stand. Clarity is better upright."
Victor guided her beside the chairs. Not petitioners. Presenters.
Davison leaned forward. "Dispense with theatrics. Your museum annex breaches the Preservation Covenant. It's a modernist aberration. Its purpose is emotional, vague. It has no place here."
Victor's voice was calm ice. "The Covenant encourages integration, not mummification. Our building uses reclaimed brick. The annex reflects the old city in its glass. It starts a dialogue."
He gave a nod. Marcus stepped from the shadows. He handed portfolios to each steward.
"Page three," Victor said. "The Davison family's glass atrium, 1985. Praised by this Society for 'sympathetic innovation.' Page five, the Croft Gallery's brutalist extension. We aren't pioneers. We're following your tradition."
Davison's cheeks flushed. Beatrice's lips twitched.
Elara took a step forward. Her voice rang clear. "You misunderstand history. It's not just buildings and the Alphas who built them. It's the people in their shadows. Our museum will hold their stories. Their tools. Their photos from shoeboxes."
She looked at each steward. "You speak of preserving the city's soul. Whose soul? Our Initiative is a historical document. It documents the fire. A new partnership. The evolving role of all designations. To reject it is to silence history as it's written."
The hall was dead quiet. She had reframed everything.
Davison wasn't done. His tone dripped condescension. "A pretty speech. But it proves the concern. This project is tied to your… unique situation. A contract marriage. A bonded union leveraged for influence. Should a historic district hinge on such an… unconventional bond? What happens when that personal foundation cracks?"
The attack was direct. A scalpel to their public seam.
Victor felt Elara's scent spike, then smooth. His own control frayed. A low growl vibrated in his chest. The air pressure dropped.
Beatrice Croft's hand slammed the table.
"That is enough, Charles."
All eyes snapped to her. "Personal bonds are not for this committee's scrutiny. This is grotesque overreach. You are out of order."
Davison turned on her, composure gone. "You defend this experiment? She's a Warrens Omega playing politics. He's a broken Alpha using her for rehab. They're unstable!"
"And you," Beatrice hissed, "are a frightened old man barring the door to the future. My family has been here eight generations. The empires that endure build on the past. Your objection isn't preservation. It's prejudice."
Davison's fury twisted into venom. He looked back at Victor and Elara.
"You think you've won?" he spat. "You bought a permit. This city has older loyalties. The Consortium forming against you won't care about pretty words or Omega sentiment."
He glared at Victor. "You tamed your little Warrens rat. Taught her tricks. You're now a target for every real Alpha who remembers true strength."
The slur hung, toxic.
Victor moved.
It was a slow, deliberate advance. Not a lunge. A terrible, measured approach. He stopped just short of the table.
His voice was quiet. It was a verdict. "The session is over. The Initiative proceeds. Any further obstruction will be met with litigation in every court. And the full withdrawal of Sterling support from this Society and all its affiliates."
He turned his head. His grey eyes pinned Davison like ice. "You will never speak to or of my mate that way again. The 'Consortium' should learn its first lesson now. You break yourselves against us."
He didn't wait. He took Elara's arm. They walked out.
Their footsteps echoed. The painted Alphas watched in silent acknowledgment.
In the car, Victor's fist was clenched white.
Elara placed her hand over his. "He called me a rat."
"He's a dead man," Victor growled. "I'll ruin him."
"No." Her voice was firm. "He's the mouthpiece. He gave us the name. 'The Consortium.' He showed us their face. We didn't just win. We flushed the enemy into the open."
Victor took a shuddering breath. The ozone scent calmed. He looked at her—straight-backed, eyes blazing with strategy. A queen.
"The foundation," he said.
"Held," she confirmed. "Against an earthquake."
The car pulled away. Elara looked back at the Society's facade.
The battle was won.
But Davison's words echoed.
The Consortium forming against you.
The real war had just been declared.