The heavy iron door of the Director's personal archive sealed with a resounding, metallic thud, cutting off the low, mechanical hum of the Ministry of Whispers outside.
Lyss Myrvalis did not immediately walk to her desk.
She stood perfectly still in the dim, localized light of a single aetheric lumen, her breathing shallow, her scaled tail curled tightly around her left leg. Her eyes, slitted and black, darted to the top left hinge of the heavy iron door.
She had placed a single, microscopic grain of crushed cinnaite on the lip of the hinge before she left the room four hours ago. If the door had been opened even a fraction of an inch during her absence, the draft would have blown the red dust away.
The red speck was still there.
