Pazri Loxen had perfected the art of strategic napping. Not the kind where you curled up in a plush chair, but the architectural slumber, leveraging the labyrinthine chaos of the Velisario Archives. Today’s masterpiece involved a stack of brittle, leather-bound tomes—‘The Esoteric Canticles of the Gloom-Weavers, Vol. IV’ being particularly effective—propped just so to form a surprisingly comfortable headrest. Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of moonlight piercing the grimy skylight above, illuminating a rare, cursed manuscript splayed open on her chest. A thin ribbon of drool stained the parchment, clear proof of deep, undisturbed rest in the restricted, forgotten wing. She was so close to a decent night’s sleep. So very, blessedly close. A roar ripped through the quiet, not from a grumbling stomach, but from something far more immediate. The skylight above her head exploded. Shards of reinforced glass rained down, followed by a shower of brick and pulverized mortar. Pazri’s eyes snapped open just in time to register a massive, blood-slicked silhouette hurtling towards her makeshift bed. Survival instinct, usually a sluggish beast in her, jolted awake. She rolled, a blur of motion despite her earlier inert state, narrowly avoiding the impact. The figure hit the ancient oak floorboards with a bone-jarring thud, creating a small crater where her head had been moments before. A low, guttural growl vibrated through the air, shaking the very shelves. Pazri found herself staring at Raxen Vor, the infamous Alpha of the Kargath Pack, Mirefall’s apex executioner. His broad shoulders barely fit through the hole he’d made. Dark, matted fur, still clinging to the remnants of his transformation, highlighted the severe planes of his face, currently smeared with what looked like an alarming amount of someone else’s blood. His eyes, the color of molten ember, fixed on her with predatory intent. He clutched a grotesque slab carved from what appeared to be fossilized bone, pulsating with a faint, malevolent purple light. Runes, sharp and angular, glowed along its surface like freshly cauterized wounds. It reeked of ancient, forbidden power, the kind that usually made archivists like Pazri file it under ‘DO NOT TOUCH WITHOUT MULTIPLE LAYERS OF LEAD-LINED GLOVES AND A PRAYER TO THE FORGOTTEN GODS.’ “Human,” Raxen’s voice was a low rasp, a sound that scraped against her nerves. “Decipher this. Now. Or I will flay the answers from your bones.” His gaze drifted to her face, then to the manuscript still draped over her body, the drool-stain a damning accusation. Pazri blinked, her mind already calculating the path of least resistance. Arguing with a blood-soaked werewolf Alpha who had just introduced himself by demolishing the ceiling was not it. Feigning ignorance might lead to the aforementioned flaying. Compliance, however, might buy her time. And perhaps, just perhaps, a chance to escape before he decided her human existence was an inconvenience. “Alright, alright, no need for theatrics,” she mumbled, pushing herself upright. The relic pulsed, drawing her eye. “What exactly am I reading? Looks like a shopping list for a necromancer’s convention.” Raxen took a menacing step closer, the air crackling with his barely restrained ferocity. “Do not mock. The markings are of the Ur-Tongue. Ancient. Powerful. I need to know what they say. Immediately.” He thrust the carved fossil towards her. Its purple glow intensified, casting eerie shadows across her face. Reluctantly, Pazri reached out, her fingers brushing against the cold, smooth bone. The moment her skin connected with the fossil, searing heat surged up her arm. The purple light flared, blindingly bright, and a shriek, not her own, echoed in her mind. The runes on the surface, instead of remaining static, began to move, to *flow*. They didn’t just flow across the slab. They sank *into* her. A burning sensation spread from her fingertips, up her arm, blooming across her collarbone and shoulders. She gasped, stumbling back, clutching her arm. The runes were now etched onto her skin, glowing faintly before fading to a subtle, silver scarification. The slab in Raxen’s hand was now a dull, inert piece of bone. The magic, it seemed, had found a new canvas. Then, the thoughts hit her. Not words, not a voice, but raw, unfiltered instinct. *Fragile. Delicate. Mine.* They were Raxen’s. A torrent of primal urges, a fierce, terrifying protectiveness that utterly contradicted the death threat he’d just issued. He wanted to keep her safe. He wanted to *possess* her. The contrast was dizzying. Her gaze locked onto his in sudden, horrifying comprehension. He was still snarling, “What have you done, human?!” But in her mind, she heard: *Keep her close. Keep her alive. No one touches my anchor.* Anchor? What anchor? “I… I didn’t do anything,” Pazri stammered, fighting to keep her expression neutral, to hide the sheer terror and confusion warring within her. “It just… absorbed into me. The translation, I think. It’s inside my head now.” She lied, or rather, embellished the truth. The Ur-Tongue was now part of her, yes, but so was the Alpha’s feral mind. “I can still read it. But it’s not going to be quick. It’s… a lot.” Raxen’s visible anger warred with the internal, possessive roar in her head. His nostrils flared, scenting the air. His gaze, still molten, lingered on the newly marked skin where the runes had settled. The protectiveness emanating from him through the link was almost suffocating. “Then you will read it, Archivist. Every word. And you will tell me everything. Until then,” he paused, his eyes narrowing, “you belong to me.” Pazri swallowed, the words ‘you belong to me’ feeling less like a threat and more like a brand. “Fine,” she agreed, opting for the path of least resistance once more. “I’ll decipher your primordial paperweight. But I’ll need a quiet place, and a cup of kashmar tea. And maybe, just maybe, you could not threaten to flay me every five minutes?” A low rumble escaped Raxen’s throat, a sound that could have been a growl or a reluctant acknowledgment. He turned, the broken skylight framing his departure. With a powerful leap, he vanished into the Mirefall night, leaving Pazri alone in the dust and moonlight. The silence that followed was unnerving. Until it wasn’t. The moment Raxen’s presence receded, a cacophony erupted in her skull. It was like a hundred voices, all at once, a tidal wave of thoughts, emotions, and raw, predatory instinct. Wolves. So many wolves. A pack. The Kargath Pack. She could hear their hunger, their battle lust, their loyalty to their Alpha. Their telepathic noise was a buzzing, overwhelming swarm. Then, a voice, sharp and clear, cut through the din. *Target located. The human in the archives. Vulnerable. Eliminate.* Ice settled deep in Pazri's gut. *They* were coming. For *her*.

The Primordial Paperweight