Adam starts disappearing at night.
Not the restless pacing kind of disappearing. Not the way he does when he cannot sleep and needs air or space to think. This is deliberate. Quiet. Purposeful in a way that makes my wolf pay attention. He leaves after the last patrol change, when the corridors thin and the packhouse settles into its bones, when even the walls seem to exhale.
“The archives,” he tells me the first time, already pulling on his jacket, voice low like the word itself might travel.
“The sealed ones,” I say, watching his hands move with practiced efficiency.
He nods once. “The forbidden ones.”
I should tell him not to go. I should worry aloud about Council repercussions, about wards that bite back when crossed without permission, about the way secrets have a habit of demandi
