The sub-basement was cold and Soren followed the maintenance tunnels past the boiler access, past the water treatment junction, past a row of sealed rooms.
His arms were unwrapped now, the frostbite and burn scars visible in the utility lighting. Pale white on the left, mottled pink on the right.
He'd told no one where he was going.
The file was ash in a trash bin three floors above him.
The door was where Vesna said it would be.
Behind a service panel that hadn't been opened in decades, judging by the corrosion on the screws. Soren used a maintenance wrench to remove the panel, revealing old brickwork with a lock set into the stone.
The key fit. Turned with resistance, then gave.
The room behind it was small.
A single desk in the center, wooden, old enough that the grain had darkened to near-black.
On the desk sat a quill.
A plain feather quill in a brass holder next to a sheet of paper that was already full of writing.
