Mailah stood frozen, her fingers white-knuckled around the cold, silver edges of the astrolabe. The chamber's gravity seemed to shift, pulling at her balance, but it was the sudden, sharp scent of sandalwood and something distinctly, dangerously other—something metallic and sharp like ozone—that froze her in place.
Before she could take another step toward the glowing heart of the archive, a voice cut through the hum of the ancient machinery. It was low, cultured, and carried the weight of a memory she had tried to suppress for weeks.
"I wouldn't touch that if I were you. Unless, of course, you're looking to have your soul unspooled by the foundation's resonance."
She spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. There, standing in the shadowed archway of the corridor she had just emerged from, was Grayson.
