The east wing of the grand library existed on a completely different frequency than the bustling main stacks. The ceilings were oppressively low, the wooden shelves bowed with ancient weight, and the morning light only managed to pierce the high windows in sharp, diagonal strips exactly at the sixth bell, just as the sun cleared the Academic District's eastern wall. It was a fleeting, highly specific hour that made the archive feel less like a school and more like a sanctuary.
Isole was already there.
