Page 55 of Match Made In Growl

The investigation moved faster than Steph had expected. Emmett had watched all seven recordings twice before breakfast and arrived at the council building with a face that suggested he'd made decisions during the night that he was now prepared to execute. Elder Varric's seat gave Emmett full authority to act on matters of community safety, and attempted murder of a credentialed researcher fell comfortably within that jurisdiction.

Rydan's property was searched. They found records, the real ones. Ledgers that matched the gaps in the Holt family archives, correspondence with pride elders across three states, and documentation of the 1927-1943 consolidation in his own handwriting, including the names of the families who'd been "removed." The Brennans. The Volkovs. The Tanaka branch. Others Steph hadn't uncovered yet. All accounted for in Rydan's private records of a man who'd kept books on his own crimes.

There was no trial. No public spectacle. Emmett convened a closed session with the five council members and presented the evidence. The session lasted three hours. When it ended, Emmett called Criss and Steph back into his office and told them the council's decision.

Rydan Ashkar's advisory status was permanently revoked. His name would be formally removed from all council records pertaining to the historical preservation committee. The pride families he'd named as allies would be interviewed individually, and those found complicit in ongoing obstruction would face proportional consequences. The families he'd erased would be restored to the historical record, their names, their contributions, their fates documented accurately and permanently.

"What about the site?" Steph asked.

Emmett leaned back in his chair. He looked tired in the way that leaders look tired when they've done something necessary. "The council is designating the eastern ridge as a protected historical sanctuary. Full preservation status. No unauthorized access, no modification, no sealing."

"And my research?"

"Continues. With council support and an expanded permit that doesn't expire until your work is complete." He paused. "We'd like to discuss publication protocols. Not censorship. More like a collaboration. There are aspects of the site that have implications for living families, and we'd appreciate input on how those elements are presented."

"That's reasonable." Steph had expected this and had already been thinking about it during the walk from the cabin. "I'll prepare a draft framework for review. My interest is historical accuracy, not sensationalism. The families who were harmed deserve to have their stories told correctly, and the families who are still here deserve to be part of that conversation."

Emmett nodded. His stormy eyes moved to Criss, who'd been sitting quietly through the entire meeting, which was itself remarkable enough that Steph could feel his effort through the bond. The deliberate choice to let the process work instead of pushing it.

"The pride code violation," Emmett said. "The public shift in the square."

"What about it?" Criss's voice was even.

"Given the circumstances, the council is treating it as an emergency action. No formal reprimand. But Criss, the pride has its own process for addressing this. The council can't intervene in internal pride governance."

"I know. I'll deal with it."

Steph felt the tension spike through the bond and dissipate just as quickly. He'd expected this. He was ready for it.

They left the council building into an afternoon that smelled like cut grass and the first blooms of late spring. The square was bustling, shopkeepers open, Twyla visible through the Griddle & Grind window arranging pastries on the tiered display she used for weekends.

"You were quiet in there," Steph said.

"You had it handled."

She laughed and the sound surprised her, loose and full in a way that felt new. Through the bond she felt his response to it, a warmth that spread through his chest like a swallow of good whiskey, and the feedback loop of her laughter making him warm making her warmer was something she suspected she'd never get tired of.

They walked to the ridge that afternoon. Not for work. Steph wanted to see the chamber in the daylight, without urgency.

The basin was quiet. The blue ward-light had dimmed to a faint glow in the carved channels, steady and patient. The chamber entrance stood fully open, the carved walls visible from outside, the pictographic history illuminated by the afternoon sun that reached the interior for the first time in decades.

Steph stood at the entrance and let her sensitivity open. The energy was different now. Still heavy, still layered with grief, but the suppression was gone. The stored pain of seventy years had been released into the land, absorbed, distributed. What remained was memory, clean and undistorted, waiting to be read by someone with the patience and the skill to listen.

She pressed her palm against the chamber wall. The stone hummed under her hand, low and warm, and the emotional residue that met her sensitivity wasn't anguish anymore, but gratitude. The particular frequency of something that had been heard after a very long silence.

Criss stood behind her at the entrance, giving her space. She could feel him through the bond, his steady presence, the quiet pride he carried for what she'd accomplished, the patience he was learning to wear instead of performing.

"This is going to take months," she said, running her fingers along the carved inscriptions. "A full translation of both layers, documentation of every pictographic panel, cross-referencing with the surface wards and Rydan's private records. Maybe a year."

"Sounds like you'll need a place to stay."

"I have a place. The inn."

"Diana's mattresses are terrible."

"They're perfectly fine."

"Mine's better."