The Archive's deeper corridors were colder than the rest—colder in a way that didn't come from air or stone, but from pressure. Cain felt it immediately as they descended the narrow stairwell spiraling below the shattered reading hall. Each step hummed faintly under his boots, like a living pulse buried beneath the slab.
Sirin walked ahead, wings tucked tight and expression sharp. She wasn't speaking, and Cain wasn't asking. The silence between them wasn't tension; it was calculation. He needed answers. She needed to figure out which ones she could give without detonating him.
The bottom of the stairwell opened into a long corridor lined with metallic ribs, each one inscribed with glyphs Cain couldn't decipher. They flickered weakly as he passed. Reacting. Recognizing something in him.
He ignored them.
"What exactly are we heading toward?" Cain asked, voice steady.
