The archive was cold.
Not the ambient cold of stone buildings in early morning — the specific, deliberate cold of a space where preservation spells had been running uninterrupted for decades, keeping paper from yellowing and ink from fading and the accumulated record of an empire from becoming dust. Elara's breath didn't mist but she could feel it at the edges of her fingers, the kind of chill that settled into joints and stayed.
She didn't mention it.
Mahir walked beside her, two steps back and to her left, which was his default position in public spaces — close enough to intervene, far enough to look like escort rather than shadow. The physician had apparently done something useful because the slight adjustment in his weight was gone. He moved normally. She noted this and moved on.
