The Ministry's central processing office occupied the third sub-level of the Ashenveil administrative complex, below the diplomatic archives and above the secure document vault. It was a long, low room lined with oak filing cabinets whose drawers ran on oiled brass rails. Eighteen desks. Twelve occupied at this hour. She breathed in the heavy scent of burning lamp oil, crisp parchment, and the sharp copper tang of fresh routing wax.
Sera Myrvalis sat at the fourth desk from the north wall, the same desk she had occupied for nine years. The surface was organized with the precision of someone who processed between forty and sixty field reports per week and had never mislaid one.
The evening courier batch had arrived twenty minutes ago. Seven cylinders. She was on the fourth.
