The third wax seal on the reinforced iron door remained unbroken. The crimson imprint of the Ministry crest—a blindfolded hawk perched atop a cog—caught the dull, flickering light of the aether-lamps overhead. Lyss Myrvalis stood perfectly still in the sterile corridor, her eyes fixed on the wax. The edges were sharp. The surface was smooth, unmarred by the heat of a forged duplicate or the microscopic abrasions of a tension-wire bypass.
It was secure.
Her tail flicked left, a rigid, abbreviated snap. A second later, it flicked right.
