The Archives of the Ministry of Whispers were designed to be quiet.
Rows of towering iron bookshelves stretched into the gloom, lit only by dim, phosphor-fed aether-lamps that cast long, rigid shadows across the stone floor. It smelled of old paper, ozone, and the faint, coppery tang of drying ink. Operatives moved through the aisles with deliberate silence, their dark leather coats absorbing the minimal light. They spoke in low murmurs, trading coded intelligence like currency.
Sera Myrvalis did not wear black leather. She wore an unadorned, gray apprentice robe that swallowed her small, nineteen-year-old frame as she sat at a corner desk in the tertiary cataloging division, endlessly sorting field reports from the western border by date and severity.
She was the picture of perfect, unassuming obedience. Her soft, scaled features were completely still. Her large, black eyes tracked across the documents with an even, mechanical rhythm.
