The underground archive vault smelled heavily of decades of undisturbed dust, old water damage, and something crisp operating underneath both of those elements—a dry, papery scent that Sera had slowly begun to find steadying. It meant undisturbed ground. It meant the corrupt elite of the Ashborne pack had deemed these dead files too insignificant to burn or protect.
She was down in the dark vault by five-thirty every morning now.
Corvin had entirely stopped commenting on her obsessive hours. The hardened outpost leader simply left a steaming ceramic bowl of porridge or a cup of bitter black tea on the corner of the wooden desk at exactly six o'clock, then went about her own survival business without asking a single question. This absolute lack of intrusive subtext was, Sera was rapidly r
