Chapter 37: The Black Wing

　　The door to the Black Wing clicked shut behind them, sealing them in a tomb of silence. The air was different here—colder, drier, preserved with a precision that spoke of powerful, expensive magic. The lighting was low, emanating from softly glowing orbs set into the ceiling, casting long, distorted shadows. The space was smaller than the main archive, but more densely packed. Rows of black, ironwood shelves stood like silent sentinels, each bearing neat, uniform folios bound in dark leather and marked with silver-inked codes. This was not a place for browsing; it was a vault for secrets.

　　The pressure was immediate and immense. Violet was on the other side of that door, a sitting target. Every second they spent in here increased the risk of her discovery. They had to be fast. They had to be perfect.

　　“The Aretia files,” Caden whispered, his voice swallowed by the oppressive quiet. “Look for the M-class designations. Military campaigns. The year of the rebellion.”

　　They split up, moving with a frantic, silent urgency. Caden’s eyes scanned the codes on the spines, his mind a whirlwind of archival classification systems. M-776. M-777. The years of the Aretia campaign. His heart hammered against his ribs. He was so close. The truth that had haunted him for two decades was within arm’s reach.

　　Xaden and Garrick moved with lethal efficiency, checking the ends of aisles, their senses stretched for any sound of approach. The Black Wing was not meant to be empty; at any moment, a scribe could enter, and their intrusion would be over.

　　Caden found the section. The shelves were packed with thick, heavy folios. He pulled one out at random. After-Action Report: 7th Wing, Gryphon Skirmish, Aretia Perimeter. His hands trembled as he opened it. The script was neat, bureaucratic. It detailed a minor engagement, listing casualties, victories. It was the official story, the sanitized version. He needed the source. The raw data. The orders.

　　“The command logs,” he breathed. “They’ll be separate. Look for sealed containers. Red wax seals.”

　　They searched faster, their movements a blur. Then Garrick hissed, a sharp intake of breath. He pointed to a low cabinet at the end of the row, its doors secured with a heavy, physical lock. Unlike the magical wards on the door, this was a simple mechanism. Xaden made quick work of it with his picks.

　　Inside were not books, but scroll cases. Dozens of them, made of aged leather, each stamped with a date and a unit designation. Caden’s eyes fell on one. Command Dispatch: General L. Sorrengail. Aretia Theater. Operation Iron Hammer.

　　His blood ran cold. This was it. The orders directly from her hand.

　　He pulled the case out, his fingers fumbling with the tie. He unrolled the scroll on a nearby reading stand. The handwriting was sharp, authoritative, unmistakably Lilith Sorrengail’s. It was a deployment order. But as Caden’s eyes raced down the page, his stomach twisted into a knot of ice. The order was not for a tactical assault. It was for a “strategic repositioning” of the 6th Wing—Brennan’s wing. It directed them to a specific valley, a valley that, according to the intelligence briefs in the adjacent folios Caden frantically pulled, was known to be a gryphon nesting ground of unprecedented size. The briefs described the gryphon forces as “overwhelming,” a “certain suicide mission.”

　　But the order from General Sorrengail was clear. It commanded the 6th Wing to hold the valley “to the last rider,” to buy time for the “main force” to retreat. The main force, led by the General herself.

　　It was not a tactical blunder. It was a calculated sacrifice. A purge.

　　“Gods,” Garrick whispered, reading over his shoulder. “She sent them to die.”

　　Caden’s vision blurred. He saw Brennan’s face, the young, brilliant rider full of fire. He saw the official report that had called him a hero, died holding the line. It was all a lie. A monstrous, premeditated lie.

　　But there was more. Attached to the order was a smaller, more fragile scroll. A personal memorandum, sealed with the Sorrengail signet. The seal was broken. Caden, with trembling hands, unrolled it.

　　It was not a military document. It was a private letter to a figure identified only as “The Librarian.” It discussed the “Aretia problem,” the “inconvenient witnesses,” and the need for a “revised historical narrative.” It spoke of purging the archives of “unreliable accounts” and constructing a “more suitable legacy” for the war. It was a blueprint for the lie. And it was signed by Lilith Sorrengail.

　　This was more than evidence of a battlefield betrayal. This was evidence of a conspiracy to rewrite history itself.

　　“We have it,” Caden said, his voice a hoarse croak. He began to roll the scrolls with frantic care. “We have to go. Now.”

　　Suddenly, Xaden stiffened. He held up a hand, his head tilted. “Footsteps,” he mouthed.

　　Panic surged through Caden. They were trapped. The only way out was through the door Violet was holding open.

　　Xaden pointed to the cabinet. “Get back in. Hide.”

　　They scrambled into the cramped space, pulling the cabinet doors shut just as the main door to the Black Wing hissed open. Through the narrow crack between the doors, Caden saw two scribes enter, their robes rustling. They were speaking in low, casual tones about a misplaced folio. They were getting closer.

　　Caden held his breath, the damning scroll case clutched to his chest. If they were found, it was over. Violet would be caught. Everything would be for nothing.

　　The footsteps paused just a few feet away. Caden could see the hem of a scribe’s robe. He closed his eyes, waiting for the discovery.

　　Then, a bell chimed softly elsewhere in the archive. One of the scribes sighed. “The Chancellor’s summons. It can wait.”

　　The footsteps receded. The door hissed shut. They were alone again.

　　They waited a full minute in the stifling darkness before Xaden pushed the cabinet door open. “Go,” he said.

　　They burst out of the Black Wing, their hearts pounding. Violet was still there, her face pale, a sheen of sweat on her brow. Her hand was pressed against the crystal panel, which glowed a steady, reassuring blue.

　　“Did you get it?” she asked, her voice strained.

　　Caden held up the leather case. “We got it.”

　　A wave of relief so profound it was almost painful washed over her face. She removed her hand from the panel. The blue light died. The door was sealed once more.

　　They had the truth. Now, they had to escape the Citadel with it.

　　Chapter 37 - End