The entrance to the archive was not marked by doors or guards, but by absence.
Aria noticed it first as she wandered the lower corridors of the packhouse, following a faint draft of cool air that did not belong in the warm stone halls. The others were still above—voices murmuring about repairs, patrols, alliances strained by the summit’s chaos. No one paid attention to her descent. That suited her. Since her recovery, a restlessness had taken root in her chest, a quiet pull she could neither name nor ignore.
The corridor ended in a blank wall of aged stone.
But the air moved.
She stepped closer. The Moonfire inside her stirred, not with violence, but recognition. A warmth gathered in her palms, spreading up her arms like liquid light. Without thinking, she pressed her hand to the wall.
