The tunnel Sirin led Cain into wasn't part of the Archive's official layout. Too narrow. Too raw. The walls weren't carved stone or metal—more like exposed roots of something old and half-awake, twisting over each other in a web of ancient tendons. Cain felt every step in his spine, like the place recognized him and didn't appreciate the introduction.
"Explain why we're not heading back the normal way," Cain said.
Sirin didn't stop walking. "Because Archivoral's collapse didn't just destabilize the Vault. The upper floors are folding. You'd rather not die under toppling scripture."
"Fair."
The path sloped downward, deeper than the Archive should've gone. Cain kept alert. Everything smelled stale. Old dust. Old blood. Old power. He felt the imprint under his ribs heating, a low throb matching his pulse.
Sirin noticed. "How strong is it?"
"Annoying."
"That's not an answer."
Cain shot her a look. "It feels like someone buried a match under my skin and keeps flicking it."
