The Lapista looked different in morning light.
The blue dust at the entrance caught it differently than it had at dusk — less frosted, more deliberate, like someone had scattered it on purpose and then reconsidered telling anyone why. The building itself was wide and low and serious, thick walls absorbing the street noise rather than reflecting it, the constant low sound of work bleeding through the stone like a heartbeat that never stopped.
Anthierin stopped at the entrance.
Not hesitation. Something more specific than hesitation — the pause of someone who had wanted to be standing exactly here for long enough that the reality of it required a moment to settle.
Lexel said nothing. Flinn said nothing. They waited.
She pushed the door open and walked in.
