Chapter 6
“And it’s something so dangerous that fifty tons of quick-drying concrete is the only way he can sleep at night,” Vaughn said.
I turned away from the table, my wolf’s tracking instincts pulling my gaze toward the deepest, darkest corner of the library archives.
The historical section.
“Vaughn,” I said, my voice steadying under a sudden rush of grim purpose. “Keep watch at the door. Lock it from the inside.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Twenty years ago,” I said, moving swiftly down the narrow aisles of bound ledgers. “That marrow… it’s old. It’s been decaying for at least two decades. I need to know what happened on these grounds twenty years ago.”
Vaughn nodded once, stepping back to the heavy oak door. He stood with his back to the wood, ears pricked, muscles taut, a silent sentinel guarding his mate while I dove into the academy’s dark past.
The historical ledgers were organized by council cycles.
I hauled down the heavy, iron-clasped volume from twenty years ago. The leather was brittle, flaking away in dry scales of dust. I flipped past the mundane administrative entries: tuition receipts, boundary disputes, hunting quotas.
Then, I reached the month of the autumnal equinox.
Twenty years ago this October.
A yellowed newspaper clipping from the *Continental Pack Gazette* slipped from between the parchment leaves. I caught it before it hit the floor, smoothing it flat against the table under the dim glow of the shaded lamp.
The headline made my blood turn to ice.
***REFORMIST LUNA CORINA DE VRIES VANISHES FROM ASHFORD ACADEMY GROUNDS.***
Beneath the headline was a portrait of a breathtaking woman. She had dark, fierce eyes, high cheekbones, and the unmistakable, regal carriage of a Great Luna.
My breath caught in my throat as I read the accompanying article:
>*“The Continental Council has suspended all peace summit proceedings following the sudden, unexplained disappearance of Luna Corina de Vries. Luna Corina, the pioneering architect of the Integrated Pack Treaty, was last seen entering the East Cloister of Ashford Academy for private diplomatic talks aimed at stripping pureblood Alphas of their hereditary immunity and granting full territorial rights to mixed-blood shifters.*
>*Council investigators have found no trace of struggle, no scent trail, and no remains. Arch-Alpha Vance of the Highfell pack has decried the disappearance as a tragedy, suggesting the reformist Luna fled into rogue territory to escape extremist threats. Following the sudden vacuum of administrative leadership, Continental Mediator Sean Callow has been appointed as interim Headmaster of Ashford Academy to maintain the peace…”*
The newspaper clipping trembled in my hands.
*The exact week.*
Sean Callow had not been appointed Headmaster through standard administrative succession. He had been installed the very week Luna Corina disappeared within the East Cloister.
Within the Belltower wing.
I leaned closer to the ledger, reading the handwritten minutes scribbled on the parchment beneath the article:
>*“Search terminated by order of Interim Headmaster Callow. Ground subsidence detected in the Belltower yard due to heavy rains. Area declared unstable. Case closed as an unresolved rogue abduction.”*
“Waverly?” Vaughn whispered from the door, his voice tense. “What did you find?”
“Corina de Vries,” I breathed, looking up at him through the gloom, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. “The reformist Luna who tried to dismantle the pureblood caste system twenty years ago. She didn't run away.”
Vaughn stepped toward the table, his brow furrowing as he read the date on the yellowed newsprint. “She went missing here? In the East Cloister?”
“In the Belltower,” I said, pointing to the handwritten entry. “And Callow was the one who called off the search. He was the one who claimed the ground was unstable.”
The room seemed to shrink, the silence pressing in around us like a physical weight.
The ancient bone marrow.
The sweet, lingering trace of silver-infused venom that only an elder Alpha or a master apothecary would possess.
The quicklime already being shoveled into the cracks.
And the fifty tons of concrete arriving at dawn.
“He killed her,” I whispered, the horror fully dawning upon me. “Sean Callow didn't come here to protect half-bloods. He murdered the Great Luna twenty years ago to stop the reform, took her place as Headmaster, and buried her beneath the flagstones.”
“And now,” Vaughn said, his voice dropping into a deadly, chilling register, “the foundation is rotting from underneath. The earth is shifting, the cracks are opening, and her grave is rising to the surface.”
“He didn't leak those files to punish Julian,” I said, cold dread paralyzing my limbs. “He leaked them to make sure Julian’s fights tore the floor apart. He manufactured the entire crisis. The bullying, the broken stones, the condemned courtyard… it’s all a smokescreen.”
Vaughn looked toward the small, high window that opened out onto the rainy grounds.
In the distance, the low, mechanical rumble of heavy diesel engines cut through the storm.
The concrete trucks were already lining up outside the main gates.
“They’re not waiting for dawn,” Vaughn snarled, his eyes flashing dangerous amber in the shadows. “Callow moved the schedule up. He’s going to pour the slab tonight.”
The roar of diesel engines vibrated straight through the archive floor, rattling the glass flutes of the wall sconces.
Vaughn took my wrist, pulling me toward the iron spiral staircase that led up to the cloister arcade. His grip was an iron band, warm and electric, the mate bond thrumming between our racing heartbeats.
“We have to reach the Great Hall,” I whispered, stumbling slightly as we hit the damp slate steps. “If we show the Elders Luna Corina’s file, if we tell them about the lime—”
“The Elders won’t believe two charity strays over Sean Callow,” Vaughn cut in, his voice grim and practical. “Not without physical proof. If we walk in there with an old ledger, Callow will claim we stole classified records and have us locked in the holding kennels before we can finish a sentence.”
“Then what do we do?”
“We get eyes on the courtyard,” Vaughn said, pushing open the heavy oak fire door at the landing. “We see what those trucks are doing.”
The sleet hit us the moment we stepped into the open arcade.
The wind had whipped the rain into stinging needles, driving across the manicured lawns of the inner quad. Ashford Academy lay under a blackout of stormy darkness, but the East Cloister was bathed in harsh, blinding halogen glare.
Temporary industrial floodlights had been erected along the high balustrades. Thick rubber power cables snaked across the sodden grass like black vipers. And through the driving sleet came a sound that made my wolf’s ears pin flat against my skull:
Shouting. Snarling. The unmistakable, predatory tension of shifters cornering prey.
“He didn't wait,” Vaughn growled, his body lowering instantly into a combat crouch. “Look.”
Through the wrought-iron arches flanking the Belltower Courtyard, chaos was tearing the night apart.
It wasn't a construction crew clearing rubble. It was an ambush.
Julian Vance stood in the center of the cracked courtyard, but he wasn't alone. Six pureblood Alphas from the Highfell lodge formed a loose, menacing semi-circle. Their eyes were glowing in the halogen wash—amber, crimson, and feral gold—their teeth bared in vicious sneers.
