My hand pauses, highlighter hovering.
This is the kind of detail that gets people killed if handled wrong.
I stare at the wall, then at my notes, then at the hallway beyond the open door. Wolves pass outside, their steps quiet, their voices too low to catch. The estate feels like it has ears in every wall.
I close my notebook slowly and slide it back into my bag. I need to talk to Ciaran.
I grab the chart photos I took earlier and tuck them beside my new highlights. My fingers press the paper edges hard enough to crease them, because the urgency in my chest has nowhere else to go.
I decide, right there, that I bring this to Ciaran privately.
I findCiaran in a narrow study off the main hall, the door half shut and the windows cracked just enough to let cold air bleed in. He stands over a wide oak desk covered in open folders, his posture straight and controlled, one hand braced against the wood as he reads. When he looks up, his eyes immediately flick to my bag and the tension in my grip.
“You found something?” He asks.
“I did,” I reply, closing the door behind me.
The latch clicks softly, but it sounds louder than it should. Ciaran gestures toward the desk, and I spread my notebook and chart photos across the surface. The patrol rotation sheet lies open in the center, edges slightly worn from repeated handling.
“I highlighted repeated weak border zones,” I say. “And I traced the red adjustments that created timing gaps.”
Ciaran leans in without speaking, his shadow falling across the page. He does not interrupt while I point out the clustered shifts, the manipulated handoffs, and the initials written beside the changes.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
“Those initials belong to Gideon,” he says.
I glance at him. “You’re sure.”
“I approve broad rotations,” Ciaran replies. “Gideon handles fine adjustments when the council is reviewing resource distribution.”
His voice is steady, but his jaw tightens slightly.
I slide another page forward. “The repeated adjustments all fall within the same corridor. Weak border zones near the ravine system.”
Ciaran nods once, then reaches for a separate folder and opens it. Inside are council member profiles, brief summaries of responsibilities and assignments. He flips to Gideon’s page and taps a line with his finger.
“He oversees coordination with outer boundary logistics,” Ciaran says. “He reviews reports on patrol fatigue and reassignments.”
“And he has the authority to justify route changes,” I add.
“Yes,” Ciaran replies.
He straightens slowly, folding his arms as he studies the charts again. The tension in the room shifts, subtle but sharp, like we have stepped closer to a cliff edge without realizing it.
“I cannot accuse him without proof,” Ciaran says.
“I am not asking you to,” I reply. “I am asking you to consider access and motive.”
His gaze returns to mine, assessing.
“You think he is the rogue,” Ciaran says.
“I think he is connected,” I answer carefully. “Either directly or through someone who answers to him.”
Ciaran’s expression remains controlled, but something hard flickers beneath it. He moves the patrol chart aside and pulls out another map, this one marked with old logging roads and hunter access points.
“Look,” he says.
