The deep archives of the Ministry of Whispers did not smell of blood or treason. They smelled of hot sealing wax, dry parchment, and the slow, grinding attrition of bureaucracy.
Lyss Myrvalis sat at a heavily scarred ironwood desk, her claws tapping a staccato rhythm against the polished surface. Her tail flicked abruptly, striking the leg of her chair—a sharp, involuntary twitch. She forced it still. It was a nervous habit, one she had developed after the Morreth breach. The entity had not broken the surface, but the pressure of its near-ascension had left a psychic bruise on every sensitive mind in the capital. Lyss still dreamed of the stone moving. She still woke up calculating the structural integrity of her own bedroom ceiling.
She focused her eyes back on the desk.
