The palace archives were not built for comfort.
Stone, paper, dust, and the low hum of preservation wards thick enough to keep a dragon fresh. No windows. Just rows and rows of shelves disappearing into dimness.
It smelled like old ink and older secrets.
“Welcome to hell,” El whispered, peering past me as the heavy door shut behind us. “Book‑flavored.”
“You didn’t have to come,” I murmured.
She snorted. “Miss watching you go toe‑to‑toe with centuries of dead wolves? Please.”
Aria led the way between shelves, robes whispering over the stone. Kaiden walked at my shoulder, a contained storm in jeans and a plain black shirt, his presence a shield and a provocation at once.
Riven brought up the rear, expression carved into professional neutrality. The guards had stayed outside; in here,
