Denial, it turned out, was easiest when I kept moving.
If I stayed still too long, my thoughts looped back on themselves. On the way my chest had tightened. On the pull I refused to name. On the look in Mara's eyes the morning before when she'd figured it out way too fast. So I didn't stay still.
I worked.
By midmorning, I was buried in the archives. It was cool and dim in there, stone walls holding onto the night's chill. Dust floated lazily in the air, disturbed only when I shifted parchment or slid a ledger free from its shelf. I liked it here. Things made sense between rows of records and neatly bundled correspondence.
No instincts. No staring eyes. No questions.
Just order.
I moved through my tasks the same way I always did. Pull the request. Log it. Set it aside. Maps marked with old patrol routes. Supply tallies from winters long past. A thin stack of letters written in a careful, unfamiliar hand. The ink had faded to brown, wax seals cracked and repaired over time, but they were intact. All these seemingly small things, yet so important and delicate.
That thought steadied me more than it should have.
"Still alive in here?"
I didn't jump and that alone felt like a win. "Unfortunately," I said, not bothering to look up.
Joren stepped into the doorway, his boots loud against the stone. He was one of the quartermasters. Solid, broad-shouldered, and always smelling faintly of oil and grain dust. "Council wants inventory from last spring."
"North stores or east?"
"Both."
I sighed. "Of course they do." I slid a ledger free and passed it to him. He flipped through it, whistling softly.
"You're quick today," he said. "Didn't even have to chase you down."
"I don't plan on being memorable."
He snorted. "Little late for that, I think."
My hand stilled for just a second.
Joren either didn't notice or pretended not to. He thanked me, tucked the ledger under his arm, and left. I waited until his footsteps faded before I let out the breath I'd been holding.
Memorable.
I didn't want that. I'd built my life on the opposite: being useful without being noticed, present without being pulled into pack politics or expectations. The work mattered. I mattered. Just quietly.
I'd been doing it this way for six years now. Head down. Get the job done. Don't linger. Don't invite attention. It had worked well for me so far.
As the sun climbed higher, light filtered through the narrow windows, catching dust motes and turning them gold. I bundled the finished requests, tied them off neatly, and carried them toward the administrative wing. Wolves passed me in the halls. Some nodded, some didn't, but I felt it anyway. That awareness. Not sharp or hostile; just curious.
I kept my eyes forward.
In the scribes' room, I dropped off the documents and accepted another task without comment. Cross-referencing patrol reports from the western border. Tedious and time-consuming work. It was perfect.
Hours slipped by. Ink stained my fingers. My shoulders ached from leaning over the desk, the good kind of ache that came from being useful. Every now and then, my thoughts tried to drift. Toward pale blue eyes. Toward a presence I could still feel if I let myself.
I didn't let myself.
It hadn't meant anything.
People felt things all the time. Attraction. Familiarity. Old memories bumping into new circumstances.
That didn't make it fate.
Near the end of the shift, voices rose in the corridor outside. Laughter, high and breathless, drifting down the stone hall.
"I swear, did you see him?" one girl whispered, not nearly as quietly as she thought. "Training shirtless like that? It should be illegal."
Another giggle followed. "Those shoulders? And the way he moves? Gods, I'd volunteer for drills every day if it meant watching that."
I pressed my pen harder into the page, jaw tightening.
Footsteps approached, heavier this time. An authoritative voice cut in sharp and unimpressed. "Knock it off. This isn't a tavern. Find something useful to do before I find it for you."
The laughter scattered fast, voices dropping into embarrassed murmurs as they hurried away. My stomach tightened before I could stop it. I stayed seated and kept writing. Focus. Just focus, I told myself.
Eventually, I finished the last line, sanded the ink, and closed the ledger with care. When I finally stood and stretched the stiffness from my back, the corridor was empty again.
Relief came fast, followed by something else I refused to name.
Denial worked best like this, I decided. Like a habit. A choice I could make again and again.
And as long as I kept choosing it, nothing had to change.