The door to the lower archive shut behind them with a heavy, final sound that seemed to swallow the last of the chamber's warmth.
For a moment, nobody moved.
The corridor beyond was narrow, older than the vault above it, and lined with stone that had been polished by generations of hands carrying books, keys, and secrets. The light from Silas's lantern reached only a little way ahead, leaving the rest of the passage in a dim amber haze. The air was drier here, but the cold had deepened. It clung to Fang's skin like a breath held too long.
Ren looked around once, then quietly said, "This place feels wrong."
Pax gave him an irritated side glance. "That is because it is wrong."
Silas, already walking ahead, answered without turning. "You will need to be more specific if you want to narrow that down."
Pax's mouth tightened. "I dislike him."
Ren glanced at him. "You have been saying that since you met him."
"Because he keeps being like that."
"Like what?"
"Annoyingly correct."
