COORDINATES
The coordinates from Felix's intercepted message led to a storage room in the eastern wing of the packhouse. Ronan stood in the corridor outside, his hand resting on his weapon, his mind sorting through implications he didn't yet want to voice.
Felix hovered beside him, the archivist's nervous energy barely contained. "It's just ahead. Third door on the left. I didn't touch anything inside—just verified the location and came straight to you."
"Show me."
Felix led the way, his footsteps soft on the stone floor. The eastern wing was quiet at this hour, most wolves occupied with evening routines, meals, the small domesticities that made a packhouse function. The corridor smelled of dust and disuse, the particular stillness of spaces that saw traffic only when needed.
The storage room door was unremarkable. Locked, but with a standard mechanism that any senior pack member could bypass. Ronan produced his key, turned it, and stepped inside.
