The Western Archives were built for permanence. Rows of massive, ceiling-high shelves carved from solid ironwood dominated the geometry of the room. The space was perfectly symmetrical, the stone floors polished to a mirror shine, the air thick with the smell of old parchment and preserving wax. The silence in the deep vaults was absolute—a crushing, sensory weight designed to isolate the archivist and focus the mind.
Sera Myrvalis stood at the end of Corridor 14, bathed in the pale, sterile light of a single glow-stone. She wore her unadorned gray robes, carrying no weapons, protected by no armor. She was forty-two years old, and her entire life's work was contained in the ledgers stacked on the ironwood desk before her.
Clack.
The sound of the heavy vault door locking shut echoed down the corridor, shattering the silence.
Sera did not jump. She did not run. She simply looked up from her ledger.
Director Lyss Myrvalis stepped out of the geometric shadows.
