The sudden cessation of the humming, followed by the distinct click and scrape, sent a jolt of pure terror through Anya. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she pressed herself against the cold stone wall, flashlight extinguished, plunging herself into absolute darkness. Someone was in that room. Someone who was clearly trying to be discreet.
She strained her ears, listening intently. A faint shuffling sound, then a soft thud, as if something heavy had been placed on a surface. The air, already thick with dust and old paper, now seemed to crackle with an unseen presence. Every nerve ending in Anya's body screamed at her to flee, but a stubborn resolve, fueled by her mother's words and the burning need for answers, kept her rooted to the spot.
Slowly, cautiously, a sliver of light appeared from beneath the carved wooden door. It was a pale, almost ethereal blue, casting long, distorted shadows into the passage. Anya peered through the narrow gap, her eyes adjusting to the dim glow.
Inside, a figure moved. Tall and slender, cloaked in dark, flowing fabric that obscured their features, they were hunched over a large, ornate table in the center of the room. The blue light emanated from a complex, glowing device on the table, pulsing rhythmically. It looked nothing like anything Anya had ever seen—a strange blend of ancient Lycan artistry and advanced, almost futuristic technology.
The figure's movements were precise, deliberate. They weren't reading books or organizing files. They were manipulating the glowing device, their hands moving with practiced ease. Anya could make out intricate symbols projected onto the table's surface, shifting and swirling like liquid light. It was a form of magic, or perhaps a technology so advanced it mimicked magic. Her mother's journal had hinted at such things, ancient Lycan knowledge suppressed by the Shadow Order.
As the figure leaned closer to the device, a subtle glint of silver caught Anya's eye. It was a ring on their finger, intricately carved with a symbol Anya recognized from her mother's journal: a stylized serpent coiling around a fractured moon. It was the symbol Elara had identified as belonging to the Silent Watchers, the inner circle of the Shadow Order.
A cold dread settled in Anya's stomach. She was looking at one of them. One of the people who had likely orchestrated her mother's downfall, who now sought to control the Lycan world from the shadows.
The figure straightened, their head tilting slightly, as if listening. Anya froze, barely breathing. Had they heard her? She remained absolutely still, a statue in the darkness. The figure paused for a long moment, then turned, their gaze sweeping across the room, lingering near the hidden door. Anya held her breath, her heart threatening to pound out of her chest.
Then, with a soft sigh, the figure moved towards a large, heavy chest at the far end of the room. They opened it, revealing not gold or jewels, but stacks of ancient scrolls and what looked like meticulously organized ledgers. The blue light from the device cast an eerie glow on their face as they bent down, revealing a sharp, aquiline nose and a thin, unsmiling mouth. It was a woman, her features severe and aristocratic.
She pulled out a scroll, unrolled it, and began to read, her lips moving silently. Anya couldn't make out the words, but the woman's expression hardened, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. It was clear she was accessing information, perhaps manipulating it, or confirming some dark plan.
Suddenly, a faint creak echoed from the passage behind Anya. Her blood ran cold. She wasn't alone in the passage. Someone else was coming.
Panic seized her. She couldn't be caught here. Not now, not when she was so close to understanding. She risked a quick glance back. A faint light, much brighter than hers, was approaching rapidly. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, echoed in the narrow space.
Without thinking, Anya scanned the immediate area around her. To her left, a towering stack of empty wooden crates, probably used for transporting archived materials. It was her only chance. With a desperate surge of adrenaline, she squeezed herself into the narrow gap between two of the largest crates, pulling them slightly closer to obscure her presence. She held her breath, pressing her ear to the wood, listening to the approaching footsteps.
The light grew stronger, illuminating the passage. Anya heard a low grunt, then a voice, deep and gruff. "Still here, Lyra? The Alpha King will be expecting you soon."
Lyra. The woman in the archive room.
"Just finishing up, Gareth," Lyra's voice replied, cool and even, betraying no hint of surprise or haste. "A few final adjustments to the projections. The Alpha Council meeting will require precise data."
Anya's eyes widened. "Projections"? "Precise data"? They were manipulating information that would be presented to the Alpha Council, perhaps even to Kaelen himself. This wasn't just about ancient prophecies; it was about current events, about controlling the very decisions that shaped Lycan society.
Gareth, a large, burly Lycan, stepped into the archive room, his heavy boots thudding on the stone floor. Anya could hear the subtle shift in the air as he entered, the faint scent of his Lycan presence. He was a guard, perhaps, or another member of the Shadow Order.
"Don't be long," Gareth rumbled. "The King is... agitated. Especially after last night's 'incident' at the festival." The word "incident" was laced with thinly veiled contempt.
Anya flinched. Her public rejection. They were discussing it, perhaps even using it as leverage.
"Of course," Lyra replied smoothly. "The King's agitation is entirely understandable given the circumstances. A momentary lapse of judgment from the Moon Goddess, quickly rectified." Her voice was devoid of emotion, chillingly detached.
Anya heard Lyra close the heavy chest with a soft click. The blue light from the device flickered, then dimmed, as if being powered down.
"Everything is prepared for the council meeting," Lyra stated. "The narrative is secure."
"Good," Gareth grunted. "Let's go."
Anya heard their footsteps recede, the heavy door to the archive room closing with a soft thud. The light beneath the door vanished, plunging the passage back into darkness. She waited, rigid with tension, until the sounds of their footsteps faded completely into the distance.
Slowly, carefully, Anya pushed the crates apart and emerged from her hiding spot, her limbs stiff and trembling. She was safe, for now. But the encounter had left her shaken, yet invigorated. She had seen them, heard them. The Shadow Order was real, and they were actively manipulating the Lycan world, even the Alpha King.
The "unwanted bride" was no longer just a victim of circumstance. She was a witness. And armed with this dangerous knowledge, Anya knew her fight had truly just begun. She had to find a way to expose them, to clear her mother's name, and to reveal the truth to a Lycan world blindly following a manipulated narrative.