AMAYA
Darian is gone.
The estate feels different without him, the air less sharp, the walls less oppressive. Servants move with lighter steps when he’s not prowling the corridors like a storm waiting to break. For me, his absence is an opportunity, one I cannot waste.
I slip into the ancient archives just after sunset. The massive oak door groans softly as I push it open, and the familiar scent of parchment, dust, and candle wax hits me like a comforting cloak.
Shelves tower around me, lined with records older than my grandmother’s stories. Somewhere in here lies what I need, a c***k in the Grayhide Pack’s walls, a weakness I can exploit when the time is right.
I light a single candle, shielding the flame with my hand. The golden glow barely touches the endless rows of leather-bound
