I leaned forward. The page was damaged—half burned away, the rest faded and water-stained. But in the center, circled in red ink that had aged to rust, one word remained legible.
Omega.
"What does it mean?" Rae asked.
"That's the problem." Kade's voice was tight. "There's no definition. No context we can piece together. It appears in sentences that suggest classification—like a designation for a type of wolf. But every document that might have explained what that type is has been destroyed."
"Deliberately," Kane added. "This wasn't decay or negligence. Someone went through every archive they could find and systematically erased this word from the record."
Tomlinson reached for the page, his professor's instincts taking over. He studied it with narrowed eyes, turning it carefully to catch the light. "The formatting suggests scientificdocumentation. Research notes, possibly. See the margins here—there were citations that have been blacked out."
"Whatever Omega means," Kade said, "someone powerful wanted it forgotten."
The room was quiet. I looked around the table—at Rae, whose expression had gone still and focused. At Ash, whose hand had found her lower back. At Tomlinson, still examining the page with clinical interest. At Luca, who had returned from settling Alexandra and now stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face troubled.
And at Silas.
He hadn't moved since Kane set the page on the table. Hadn't spoken. He sat frozen, his eyes fixed on that single word, his face pale as bone.
"Silas?" Rae's voice softened. "You've gone quiet."
He didn't respond.
"Silas."
Slowly, like a man moving through water, he reached for the page. His hand trembled. He pulled it closer, stared at it for a long moment, and I watched something shift behind his eyes. Recognition. Memory.
"Where exactly did you find this?" His voice was barely above a whisper. “Does anyone else know you took it?"
"No. We were careful."
Silas closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked exhausted. The kind of tired that came from carrying secrets for too long.
"Silas." Rae moved to his side, her hand finding his shoulder. "What is it? Do you know what Omega means?"
"It's not about the meaning." He looked up at her. Then at me. "It's about what it represents. What it was."
"Which is?"
He didn't answer. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant.
I looked at the page again. At the word circled in faded ink, surrounded by nothing but ash and damage. Seven letters. Three syllables. Simple on the surface.
But it didn't feel simple.
"Omega," I said.
Just speaking it felt different. Heavier. Like the word had weight, had texture, had history that pressed against my tongue.
Silas flinched.
The reaction was small but unmistakable. His whole body tensed, his breath catching like I'd struck him.
"That word hasn't been spoken in this territory in thirty years."
No one moved. The kitchen, so chaotic minutes ago, had gone tomb-silent.
"Why?" The question came from Rae, but I felt it in my own chest. "Why hasn't it been spoken?"
