Chapter 71 – Quiet Sabotage
Mara
The first thing I notice is the weight. The armory door should drag a little on its hinges. Too much humidity in these mountains, the timber swells. But tonight it swings open without that familiar resistance.
My fingers hover on the iron latch a heartbeat too long before I push inside.
The familiar smell envelops me. Oil, steel, cold stone. Normally it’s clean, orderly, a space that reassures me the pack’s teeth are always sharp.
I step in, boots echoing against the planked floor. The torches on the wall flicker as I run my gaze over the racks. My gut goes cold.
Two long rifles are gone from the upper hooks. A set of silvered throwing knives are missing from the locked case at the back. I check the lock for signs of tampering, but it’s intact. Someone had the key.
I pull the ledger from its shelf, flipping pages under my thumb. Last entry for those weapons? Three days ago. Logged as “maintenance” by Reed, one of our Deltas. I’ll talk to him later, but my instincts tell me this isn’t about sloppy record-keeping.
The pack’s security isn’t supposed to be porous. Not under my watch. And if someone is bleeding weapons into the dark… they’re either desperate or working for someone who wants us weaker.
I hear a noise outside. Boots on packed earth. I tuck the ledger under my arm and step out into the night.
The main clearing is quiet at this hour. Just the hiss of the bonfire settling into embers and the distant murmur of voices from the patrol returning.
I catch one figure in the shadows near the Alpha’s cabin, lingering just beyond the reach of torchlight.
Loran.
His posture is too casual, leaning against the post like he’s simply catching his breath. But his eyes are fixed on the door to the cabin. Ronan’s door. And I know Eli is alone inside tonight.
I watch from the shadow between two cabins, ledger pressed to my ribs. Loran shifts his weight, glancing once toward the patrol before slipping away between the storage sheds.
Not toward his own quarters. Interesting.
I make a note in my head, the way I would tally up a supply count.
It’s not proof of any wrongdoing yet, but it’s a thread. And I’ve learned in this pack that sometimes, when you pull a thread hard enough, the whole thing comes apart.
In my office, the lamplight is thin, but enough to see by. I spread the ledger beside two more I fetched from storage. One for weapons, one for patrol rosters. Both of those should match the supply log I keep for council review. They don’t.
Last week’s roster shows patrols running the east ridge every night. The log for their gear tells a different story. Half the time, no one signed the crossbows back in. And there’s no notation that they’re still out.
The names vary, but there’s a pattern if you know how to look. Sloppy. Or deliberate.
My mouth hardens. In this pack, sloppiness gets you torn open by an Alpha’s teeth. Which means whoever’s behind this is confident they won’t be caught. Or confident they’ll be protected if they are.
I flip another page, jot down dates and cross-reference the missing rifles. The last time they were officially checked out was for border drills near Silvercrest territory. That’s not Redmaw’s hunting ground. So why-
The floorboard creaks behind me.
“Working late?” Jace’s voice is rough as gravel. He fills the doorway, arms folded, scar catching the light like a warning.
I don’t close the ledger. “I like to know where our claws are.”
His gaze drops to the pages. He grunts. “Something missing?”
“Yes. And it’s not just weapons. Patrol records aren’t clean. Either your men can’t read, or someone’s rewriting their shifts.”
“Reed’s not the type to forget to sign gear back in.”
“No,” I agree. “But someone may be the type to sign it out under his name.”
Jace steps inside, pulling the door shut with his boot. “You think this ties to the sabotage on the west border line?”
I meet his eyes. “I think we’ve got more than one leak. And I think you already suspect who.”
His jaw ticks. “Loran.”
The name hangs there, souring the air.
“I saw him tonight,” I say. “Near the lodge. Watching the door.”
Jace’s frown deepens. “Ronan won’t want to hear it.”
My brother has a pathological aversion to mistrusting anyone in the pack. No doubt fed by the wish to be different from my paranoid father who saw everyone as traitors.
“Ronan doesn’t have to hear it until we have something he can’t ignore.” I slide the ledger toward him. “For now, we pull the threads. Quietly. If we corner a snake too soon, it just finds another hole.”
He nods once, but his shoulders are tight. “What about Eli?”
I pause, the question heavier than it should be. “What about him?”
“If Loran’s got a grudge, Eli’s the easy target. He’s… not exactly settled. And Ronan’s attention on him paints a mark on his back.”
I think about the way Loran’s eyes fixed on that cabin door. The faint, satisfied curl of his mouth before he slipped into shadow. My stomach knots.
“We make sure someone’s watching Eli,” I say. “Someone other than Loran.”
By morning, frost rims the cabin roofs and the air bites hard enough to sting the lungs. I walk the perimeter under the guise of checking the night guard’s reports. Mostly, I watch.
Loran’s nowhere in sight, but his scent clings faintly near the storage sheds. Stronger near the path that runs east, toward the unpatrolled ridge. I file it away.
Reed finds me by the firepit, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. “You were looking for me?”
I nod. “When did you last check out the long rifles from the armory?”
He blinks. “Last month, for drills. Why?”
“They’re logged under your name three days ago.”
“That’s wrong.” His brows draw together. “I haven’t been near the armory since the drills. Ask anyone on my patrol.”
“I will,” I say, and I’ll check the roster too, but I already know what I’ll find. Another forged signature. Another thread pointing the same direction.
By midday I’ve got four pages of notes, two more forged names, and a clear picture of someone with access and intent.
I lock the ledgers away in my desk and head toward the lodge. Ronan’s voice rumbles inside, sharp enough to carry even through thick timber.
He’s talking to Eli. His voice low, cutting, the tone he reserves for breaking down stubbornness.
I stop short of the door, just out of sight. It’s not my place to interfere, but I hear the bond in his voice, too. The weight of it. And I think about how vulnerable that makes Eli, no matter how sharp his tongue.
Loran would exploit that in a heartbeat.
The door opens abruptly and Eli steps out, face tight, eyes fixed on the ground. He doesn’t see me. Ronan fills the doorway behind him, watching until Eli’s down the steps, then turning back inside without a word.
I catch Eli’s arm gently as he passes. “Watch yourself,” I murmur.
He looks up, startled. “What?”
I let him go. “Just… watch yourself.”
His eyes search mine for something more, but I give him nothing. Not yet. The less he knows, the less Loran can wring out of him.
That night, I circle back to the armory. The lock is untouched, the weapons still missing. But a fresh set of boot prints lead away from the side door.
Not patrol issue. Their too narrow, too clean. Whoever wore them knew enough to avoid the mud near the main path.
I crouch, tracing the pattern with one gloved finger. Then I follow slowly, letting the cold eat at my bones.
The prints fade near the sheds. The same place I saw Loran vanish last night.
The bonfire crackles in the distance, laughter carrying thin in the cold. Somewhere above, a wolf howls, the sound curling through the trees like smoke.
I turn back toward my office, every step sinking deeper into the knowledge that something in this pack is rotting from the inside. And if I’m right, that rot wears an Omega’s smile.