"I could use an extra pair of hands today."
Elena's voice cuts through my morning fog like unexpected sunshine. She stands in the doorway, silver-streaked hair pulled back in a practical braid that catches the weak corridor light.
"The Luna has me assigned to laundry until noon," I say, gripping my basket of dirty linens until the wicker bites into my palms.
"Sarah can find another victim for her torture schedule." Elena waves a dismissive hand. "I've already cleared it with Alpha Paul directly."
"You spoke to Paul about my assignments?" I set down the basket carefully.
"He agreed immediately when I explained the situation," she says warmly. "You deserve a reprieve, Morgan."
Don't cry at basic kindness, that's pathetic even for you.
"What do you need help with exactly?" I ask, falling into step beside her.
"Medical records from the old storage vault need organizing desperately." She pushes open a heavy door that groans on ancient hinges. "Decades of files with no system whatsoever."
The storage room hits me like walking into a forgotten tomb. Stale air coats my tongue, thick with the musty sweetness of decaying paper and something sharper underneath—mildew, maybe, or the chemical tang of old ink bleeding through brittle pages.
Mold creeps along the baseboards in fuzzy gray-green patches. Cardboard boxes tower against every wall, their labels faded to illegible ghosts, stacked so high they lean drunkenly toward the center of the room.
"The previous healer believed in quantity over organization," Elena says dryly. "I've been meaning to tackle this disaster for ages."
"Where should I start sorting?" I survey the chaos with growing dismay.
"Anywhere you like, honestly." She hands me folders and colored labels, the plastic cool and smooth against my roughened fingertips. "Sort by year first, then by case type."
We work in comfortable silence for the first hour. The repetitive motion soothes my raw nerves, paper sliding against paper in a whispered rhythm that asks nothing of me.
This is the closest thing to peace I've felt in weeks.
Dust tickles my nose as I pull files from their decaying homes, particles swirling golden in the thin light from the single high window. The fluorescent tube above us flickers and hums, casting strange shadows that jump and settle like nervous animals.
"You're quieter than usual today," Elena observes, glancing up from yellowed papers.
"Just tired from everything lately," I admit quietly.
"Sarah's been working you too hard around here." Her voice carries genuine concern. "I've seen the assignments she posts on the board."
"I can handle whatever she gives me," I say automatically.
Liar, you're barely holding yourself together with string and spite.
"Handling it and thriving are different things entirely." She pauses mid-sort. "You're allowed to struggle here, Morgan."
"Thank you for rescuing me from laundry today," I manage.
"Thank me by finding logic in these files," she says, smiling.
My fingers brush a box labeled with a date that makes my stomach clench.
Eleven years ago, the year my mother died.
The cardboard feels rough against my skin, edges soft and pulpy from age and humidity. My pulse hammers in my ears, drowning out the scratch of Elena's pen across the room.
"Finding anything interesting in that section?" Elena asks casually.
"Just trying to decipher the handwriting," I lie smoothly. "Your predecessor had terrible penmanship."
"Oh, Dr. Aldric was brilliant but completely illegible," she laughs, the sound warm in the dusty space. "I spent my first year translating his notes."
"Did he handle many poisoning cases back then?" I keep my tone casual despite the tremor in my hands.
"A few over the decades, mostly accidental ingestions." She frowns thoughtfully. "Why do you ask about poisonings specifically?"
"Just curious about the variety of cases," I say, pulling records with trembling fingers.
Breathe normally, don't let her see how much this matters.
"There was one particularly strange case, actually." Elena's voice turns distant, thoughtful. "Never solved, from what I understand."
"What made it so strange?" I force the question past my tight throat.
"The toxin was extremely rare, almost impossible to obtain locally." She shakes her head slowly. "Dr. Aldric spent months trying to trace the source."
"Did he ever figure out where it came from?" My heart pounds against my ribs like a caged animal desperate for escape.
"Black market connections or allied pack sources were the only possibilities." She returns to sorting. "Nasty business, that whole investigation."
A clinical report catches my eye immediately, the paper brittle and yellowed beneath my fingertips. The texture reminds me of dried leaves, ready to crumble at the slightest pressure.
Unknown toxic compound detected. Symptoms inconsistent with common pack poisons.
The symptoms listed match my mother's death precisely.
Every single detail matches perfectly.
My hands shake so badly the paper rustles like whispered accusations. I press my palms flat against my thighs to steady them, feeling the fabric rough against my clammy skin.
I flip to the supplementary report tucked behind the file, the handwriting different, more urgent somehow. The ink has faded to a rusty brown that looks disturbingly like old blood.
Toxin accessible only through external black market sources or allied pack connections. Standard pack members would have no means of acquisition.
The words swim before my eyes as the truth crystallizes with devastating clarity.
I was twelve years old when they accused me of poisoning my own mother. A child with no money, no contacts, no knowledge of anything beyond survival.
Someone else obtained that poison and framed me for murder.
"Morgan, you look pale suddenly," Elena says softly from across the room.
"Just dust allergies acting up badly," I manage, shuffling papers to hide my discovery. The edges slice thin papercuts into my fingertips.
"Do you need water from the cabinet?" she offers kindly.
"I might step out for a moment actually," I say, rising on unsteady legs.
"Is everything alright with you?" Her concern deepens visibly.
"Just need to clear my head from the dust." I tuck the folder against my chest beneath my crossed arms, the cardboard edges pressing hard against my hammering heart.
"Take all the time you need, dear."
The walk to my room feels endless. The corridor walls press close, cool stone radiating the mountain's perpetual chill. My footsteps echo hollow against the floor, too loud in the empty hallway.
Sarah witnessed the crime, found the planted evidence, benefited most from destroying me completely.
My cousin was twelve when my mother died too. The same age, the same supposed innocence.
Could a child orchestrate murder alone?
Unless her father provided the weapon and the plan.
Sarah's father, the bitter Beta who coveted Alpha position for decades. The man who watched his brother rise while he remained second forever in the hierarchy.
My mother stood between Richard and power. With her gone and me blamed, his path cleared beautifully for advancement.
They planned it together, father and daughter, using me as their scapegoat.
I slide the folder beneath my mattress with trembling hands. The springs creak in protest, the sound too loud in the silence of my small room. The cotton sheets feel impossibly soft against my raw knuckles.
I need proof before accusing anyone of this.
The records prove the poison was impossible for a twelve-year-old orphan to obtain alone. But they don't name the real killer hiding in plain sight.
Somewhere in this pack, evidence exists that will destroy them both.
I just have to find it before they destroy me first.