"One week shy of five cycles."
His answer came quick and easy.
I said nothing more. I signed, pressing my thumb to the wax to seal it with my Alpha mark.
"Thank you, Alpha Blackthorn."
He took the leather-bound folder I handed back, flipped through to confirm the blood-seal, then closed it.
And in that split second as he turned to leave, I saw it clearly—his lips moved, fast and silent.
No sound. But the shape was unmistakable. Three syllables:
Old bastard.
He didn't even bother closing the heavy oak door behind him.
I stayed in my chair. Didn't move.
The quill slid back into its holder with a soft click.
Moonlight streamed through the arched window, falling across one corner of my desk. Almost too bright for midday—the celestial blessing that marked our kind.
I pressed the rune-stone that connected me to my Omega assistant.
"Alpha Blackthorn?"
"Close the door."
"Yes, Alpha."
A soft click, and the council chamber fell silent again.
My eyes drifted to the dimmed ward-stone on my desk—the one linked to the territory scrying network. My finger brushed its surface once, then stilled.
I didn't activate it.
Ten minutes later, the front gate keeper sent word through the message-rune.