Easton
At eleven fifty-eight, I decided I hated archives.
Not because there was anything especially threatening about old books, locked cabinets, or dusty records. I hated them because Arianna had walked into the east wing of the central house two minutes ago, and every instinct in my body was telling me something was wrong.
I stayed ten steps behind her.
Far enough that whoever sent the message might believe she’d come alone.
Close enough that I could reach her before anyone had time to regret touching her.
The east archive was darker than the rest of the building, lit only by narrow wall lamps that made the stone corridors feel older than they probably were. Arianna moved quietly ahead of me, shoulders tight, one hand brushing the wall as if she remembered every turn.
“You’ve been
