The council chamber sits at the heart of the pack house, a circular room with high ceilings and walls lined with portraits of past Alphas. I've always found it oppressive, the way all those painted eyes seem to watch and judge. Tonight is no exception.
The main council members are already seated around the massive oak table—Beta Marcus with his sharp grey eyes and sharper suits, Gamma Helen who handles pack finances with an iron fist, and three elder council members who've been around since before I was born. They all look up as Cade and I enter, their expressions ranging from curious to calculating.
I take my usual seat near the end of the table, the one designated for the pack historian. It's close enough to be included but far enough to be forgotten, which suits me fine. I pull out my tablet to take notes, a habit I've maintained despite Marcus's insistence that we have recording devices for that purpose. I prefer having my own record.
"Thank you all for coming on such short notice." Marcus stands, commanding the room with the ease of someone who's been Beta for the last decade. He's always reminded me of a chess player—three moves ahead of everyone else, always calculating. "We've received word from the Shadowbrook Pack that they're contesting the boundary markers along the eastern ridge. They claim the territory was never formally ceded to us and that we've been encroaching on their hunting grounds."
Elder Thomas, a grizzled wolf who must be pushing eighty, snorts. "That land has been ours since the treaty of 1847. I have the documentation."
"I know." Marcus's gaze flicks to me. "Thea, you've been working on digitizing the treaty records. Do we have proof of the formal cession?"
All eyes turn to me. I open my mouth to respond, to explain that yes, I have the records, I've been meticulously scanning and organizing them for the past three years, when I'm hit with the strangest sensation.
I've answered this question before.
Not just once. Multiple times. In this room, with these people, with Marcus asking in that exact tone of voice and Elder Thomas making that same dismissive sound.
The déjà vu is so strong I have to grip the edge of the table to steady myself.
"Thea?" Cade's voice carries a warning edge. "The treaty records?"
I blink hard, forcing the strange feeling down. "Yes. I have complete documentation of the 1847 treaty, including the territorial cession. The eastern ridge was formally transferred to Silverpine as part of the settlement after the Shadowbrook Alpha lost the challenge to Alpha Cornelius Thornhart." I pull up the relevant files on my tablet, projecting them onto the wall screen. "The boundary markers were placed by mutual agreement and witnessed by representatives from five neighboring packs."
The room fills with the sound of paper shuffling and low conversations as they review the evidence I've presented. I should feel satisfied—this is what I do, this is where I provide value—but instead, that nagging sense of familiarity won't leave me alone.
Have we had this meeting before? No, that's ridiculous. I would remember.
Wouldn't I?
Marcus nods, satisfaction clear on his face. "Excellent work, Thea. This should be more than sufficient to shut down Shadowbrook's claim." He turns to Cade. "I recommend we send a formal response with this documentation and request a meeting with their Alpha to reaffirm the treaty terms."
The discussion continues, dissolving into the minutiae of pack politics and territorial negotiations. I take notes mechanically, but my mind is elsewhere, circling around that moment of impossible recognition.
Maybe I'm just tired. I've been putting in long hours in the Archives, and Lyric's been having nightmares again, crawling into bed with me and Cade in the early morning hours. Sleep deprivation can cause strange mental symptoms. That has to be it.
But when I glance up and catch Lyric's backpack where I left it by the door earlier, I'm struck by another wave of that same uncanny familiarity. I've seen it there before. In this exact spot. With the light hitting it in precisely the same way.
I close my eyes and take a slow breath.
You're fine. You're just stressed and overworked. Get through this meeting, pick up Lyric, go home, and get some rest.
When I open my eyes again, Marcus is watching me with an expression I can't quite read. It's there and gone in a flash, replaced by his usual composed mask, but it leaves me unsettled.
"Thea, are you feeling well?" Helen asks, her tone more curious than concerned. "You've gone quite pale."
"Just a headache." I force a smile. "I've been staring at old manuscripts all day. The lighting in the Archives isn't ideal for extended work sessions."
"Perhaps you should take a break from the Archives more often," Marcus suggests smoothly. "Spend some time with the pack. You're so often buried in books, we hardly see you at pack functions."
There's something in his voice that sets my teeth on edge. It sounds like concern, but underneath there's something else. Something that feels almost like anticipation.
"The Archives are my responsibility." I keep my tone professional. "The records don't maintain themselves."
"Of course." Marcus inclines his head, but his grey eyes remain fixed on me. "We all have our roles to play."
The meeting drags on for another hour, covering everything from the upcoming autumn festival to updates on pack finances to a request from a neighboring territory for assistance with a rogue problem. I take notes, I provide information when asked, and I try to ignore the growing sense that something is deeply, fundamentally wrong.
When we're finally dismissed, I gather my things quickly, eager to escape the council chamber's oppressive atmosphere. Cade is immediately cornered by Elder Thomas and Gamma Helen, deep in discussion about something I don't bother listening to. He doesn't look in my direction as I leave.
The hallway outside is blessedly empty and quiet. I lean against the wall for a moment, closing my eyes and trying to center myself. The pack house is always so loud, so full of energy and dominance displays and social hierarchies that I can never quite navigate properly. Give me a silent archive and a challenging genealogy puzzle any day.
"Mom?"
My eyes snap open. Lyric stands a few feet away, Sera beside her with a concerned expression on her face.
"Hey, baby. I thought you'd be at Sera's house." I push off the wall, checking my phone. The meeting ran later than I thought—it's almost eight o'clock.
"We came back to pick up her stuffed wolf," Sera explains, her hand resting protectively on Lyric's shoulder. "She forgot it in the Archives earlier and couldn't sleep without it."
Of course she couldn't. That stuffed wolf has been her constant companion since she was a toddler. I'm not even sure where it came from—it just appeared one day, worn and loved, clutched in her tiny hands.
"I'll grab it real quick." I'm already heading toward the Archives entrance when Lyric's voice stops me cold.
"You don't have to, Mom. I know where it is."
Something about the way she says it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I turn slowly to find her watching me with those ancient eyes, and for just a moment, I swear I see something else in her expression. Something that looks almost like pity.
"Lyric—"
"It's by your desk. On the chair where I was doing homework. Right next to the genealogy chart with the Blackwood correction." She tilts her head, and a curl falls across her face. "The one I helped you fix because I could see the threads and knew Malcolm wasn't the one."
"That's... yes." I exchange a glance with Sera, who looks as confused as I feel. "How did you remember all those details?"
"I remember everything, Mom." She says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that it takes me a moment to process the words. "I always have."
Before I can ask what she means by that, she's already moving past me toward the Archives, her small feet carrying her with purpose down the stairs. Sera and I follow, finding her exactly where she said she'd be—at my desk, retrieving the stuffed wolf from the chair.
She hugs it close, burying her face in its worn fur, and when she looks up at me, there are tears in her eyes.
"It's okay, Mommy." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "We always start here."
"Start what?" I kneel in front of her, searching her face for understanding. "Baby, what are you talking about?"
But she just shakes her head, clutching the wolf tighter. "You'll understand soon. You always do. Just... not yet."
Sera touches my shoulder, her expression troubled. "Maybe she's just overtired. It's been a long day."
"Yeah." I don't believe it, but I don't know what else to say. "Yeah, probably."
I scoop Lyric into my arms, and she rests her head on my shoulder, still holding that stuffed wolf like it's a lifeline. As we climb the stairs back to the main house, I catch a glimpse of the Archives below—my sanctuary, my purpose, my life's work spread out in organized chaos.
And for the third time today, I smell smoke that isn't there and see flames that don't exist.
"It's okay, Mommy," Lyric whispers against my neck, so quietly I almost miss it. "We'll try again."
I hold her tighter and pretend I didn't hear.