THE PROPHECY
Della found it in the oldest part of the archive.
Not the organised section, not the shelves of patrol records and treaty documents and lineage files that I had been working through since my return. The deep archive. The section at the back of the room behind a door I had assumed was a storage cupboard, which turned out to contain the kind of records that packs kept because they did not know what else to do with them. Old things. Pre-council things. Documents written in a script that had evolved over generations into the language we currently used, readable if you knew how to track the drift.
Della knew how to track the drift. She had been reading old pack records since before I was born.
She brought the document to the kitchen table on a Thursday evening and laid it flat
