The Matchmaker (by Sophie Smith) novel Chapter 101

CHAPTER 101

Anastasia slid the foldet toward Saphira with quiet intent, fingers hesitating on the edge as if the paper held more than facts–like letting go night unravel something deeper. Saphira’s gaze dropped to the neat stack between them. Charts, clipped summaries, names either circled or struck through. She inhaled- the scent of dry ink mingled with traces of Zafira’s hibiscus tea, still ghosting the pages.

These are the Matchmaker files,” Anastasia said, her voice steady but taut with something unspoken. “Zafira and I spent hours combing through them.”

Saphira shifted forward, dragging her chair without ceremony until her knees bumped the table. Elbows planted, she hovered over the top page. Her eyes scanned, flitting from column to column with a tightening frown. Timelines. Progressions. Names–familiar, some half–remembered. The top half was orderly. Natural.

But halfway down… her stomach flipped.

“This part,” Anastasia murmured, touching a red underline with the edge of her nail, her hand steady despite the tension in her shoulders. “A year and a half ago. Practically overnight–almost every top–level member was replaced. No warning. No protocol. Just gone.”

Saphira blinked, breath catching. Her hand hovered above the page, then lowered to trace the ink gently as if by touching it, she could feel the shift echo through the structure they had trusted. That’s not how things change. Not like this.

Her voice was low. “And after that?”

Anastasia didn’t need to consult the paper. Her nod was slow, burdened. “Deaths. Banishments. Barely any matches. Everything points to power consolidation. Something behind the scenes.”

Saphira’s thumb froze on the margin of a document. A date half–faded. A flicker sparked across her thoughts–brief, sharp.

Nikolas.

Her heart thudded once, sharply, like her body recognized it before her mind did. “Wait…” Her breath pressed out. “That time frame… that’s almost exactly when Nikolas was taken.”

A chill prickled her arms, her skin responding before logic had time to catch up. It’s not a coincidence. Too clean. Too close. Too wrong.

She looked up, locking eyes with Anastasia. “Then it’s linked. The Elders–this reeks of them.”

Anastasia let out a slow breath, her jaw tight. “We’re digging through more now. Anything that might connect them–patterns, repeat names, ties to other packs. We’re watching everything.”

Saphira nodded, the motion brisk but charged. She reached for the rest of the stack, dragging it toward her. Her fingertips brushed over each page like she was touching gravestones–each name scratched out too soon, too easily.

If this was rewriting history… then who decided the new version?

They leaned in together, silent but synced. Heads almost touching. Pages rustled, whispers of truth buried in data. The quiet was weighty–but it carried

more than tension. It carried resolve.

If the Elders had corrupted the Matchmaker… Saphira would trace every thread they left behind.

The table was a battlefield now–coffee cups cold, papers scattered like fallen soldiers, and the faint aroma of fatigue lingering beneath the scent of ink. Saphira pressed her thumb and forefinger into the bridge of her nose, rubbing slow circles where tension settled like fog behind her eyes. Her temples throbbed, a quiet pulse that reminded her how long they’d been at this.

Opposite her, Anastasia shifted stiffly, back straight but the angle of her shoulders betrayed exhaustion. She turned a page again–same one, third time–her fingers moving like clockwork, mechanical and distracted. The pages might as well have been blank.

Silence sprawled between them, too dense to name. It wasn’t peace–it was absence. Of leads. Of hope.

Saphira leaned back, spine curving as she let the weight of it sink into her chair. Her eyes flicked over the strewn chaos before her. Whoever did this… they didn’t just hide the trail. They erased it, She glanced at Anastasia, catching her eye. Anastasia gave a small, tired shake of her head–confirmation without words.

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CHAPTER 101

Then, the soft creak of the door. Zafira stepped in, robes whispering against the wood floor like secrets. Her gaze scanned the room quickly, then settled on them with the cool precision of someone who knew exactly what hadn’t been found.

Any progress?” she asked, voice even.

Saphira lifted a hand toward the paper–storm and offered a crooked smile that didn’t teach her eyes. “Nothing. It’s been sterilized. Whoever buried this trail knew exactly how to bum evidence without leaving smoke.”

Anastasia gave a nod, her tone quiet but edged. “We’ve been chasing shadows. No breadcrumbs, no anomalies. It’s been curated. Someone knew our questions before we asked.”

Zafira approached the table, letting her fingers trail across the top folder. Her mouth tightened, thoughtful, but her eyes gleamed with intent.

“Then we’re doing it wrong,” she said softly.

Saphira blinked. “What do you mean?”

Zafira turned toward the console in the corner, its soft blue glow casting eerie light over her features. “Public files are paint. We need the canvas beneath. The system itself. The hidden code.”

Saphira stiffened, heart skipping. She wants to breach the Matchmaker’s own archive. The real one. The one layered with protection spells and encrypted locks. Her breath snagged, heat building in her chest.

“That system’s guarded like Elder relics,” she said carefully. “Who could get past it without triggering every alarm in the north?”

Zafira’s shoulders lowered slightly, as though admitting defeat by degrees. She rubbed the side of her neck, exhaustion darkening her gaze. “Only Raven or Sam. But they’re both gone. Still no contact.”

Anastasia exhaled and placed her folder flat, fingers steepling under her chin. “Then we wait. They’re the only ones with hands clean enough to bypass silently.

Saphira nodded slowly, her gaze drifting to the window. Outside, twilight had surrendered–nothing left but black sky and distant wind. The unease twisted inside her, cold and deliberate.

“I hope they come back soon,” she murmured. “And not just with answers. With tools.”

Zafira’s voice sliced the quiet. “Even better if Raven brings back Damon.”

Saphira turned sharply, brows lifting. “Why?”

Zafira’s lips quirked just slightly. “Because we can make him talk.”

Saphira frowned, head tilting. “How? What if he doesn’t?”

A glance passed between Zafira and Anastasia–quick, wordless, heavy.

Saphira’s stomach flipped. Then realization struck, slow and sharp. “Oh.”

“Nothing drastic,” Zafira added, voice gentler now. “Just… pressure. Measured persuasion.”

Saphira swallowed. She hated violence. The suggestion of force twisted something in her gut. But she trusted them. Trusted that their line wasn’t one easily

crossed.

She looked down at the paper nearest her–one of many names written, rewritten, and vanished. If it brought the truth to light… could she accept the methods?

Her hand hovered over the page. Then settled.

They wouldn’t go too far. But if Damon held answers… They’d make sure he gave them.