The corridors of the Calyra Archives always smelled faintly of iron and candle soot. The kind of scent that clings to parchment and skin alike, no matter how long you've worked here. 

I arrived just before dawn, boots echoing against the marble, the sound swallowed quickly by the cold. The rest of the archivists were already awake--sweeping, polishing, cataloging another century's worth of things the public would never be allowed to see.

"Morning, Vaerin," called Luthen from behind a stack of gilded ledgers. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, ink staining every visible inch of him. "You're late. Or we're early."

"You're early," I said, dropping my coat on the nearest chair. "The Glass Hall opens in two hours, and the east wing still looks like a tomb."

"That's because it is," he said, yawning. "Two scribes collapsed in there last week. The dust alone is older than my grandmother."

Across the hall, Mistress Kallith--our division head--strode past, robes sweeping the floor. She had the posture of someone born to command silence. "No chatter in the sanctum, please," she said without looking at us. "The restoration teams will begin transport within the hour. Vaerin, you'll be supervising Mirror Group Three."

"Three?" I blinked. "I thought the west mirrors were still quarantined."

Her eyes cut toward me, sharp as scalpel steel. "The council has cleared them for examination. You'll document their current integrity before any cleansing procedures. Nothing else. Understood?"

"Yes, Mistress."

Luthen mouthed a quiet good luck as I followed the woman down the corridor.

The Archives above have nothing in common with the Mirror Hall. It exhaled. As if the stone itself remembered the weight of what it carried, every step caused the slightest tremble in the air. The walls were adorned with mirrors of every shape--small, square, arched, some barely larger than a palm, others to the ceiling. They were all covered in silk and had red wax seals bearing the Calyra's emblem.

The older archivists claimed that occasionally you could hear them beneath the fabric, making gentle noises akin to wind trapped in glass. 

Mistress Kallith's voice echoed quietly down the room as she continued, "Start with the smaller pieces. Keep track of every inscription. Make a note of any marking you don't identify. Avoid trying to translate. Theologians should handle that."

"Understood."

"And Vaerin," she said, stopping in front of one of the biggest mirrors, an oval, dark object covered in black silk. "Avoid touching the glass. The last archivist to do so lost half of his reflection."

I bided my time until she smiled. She didn't.

The silence came back like a wave once she was gone. I took off my gloves, opened the log scroll, and started taking measurements, condition reports, and serial numbers. Like sleeping giants, the mirrors themselves towered behind their coverings. 

Around midday, Luthen entered while holding a tray of steaming mugs. He handed me one and added, "They've got us down here all day. Have you heard about what happened in Wing Seven? A scholar thought it was a bright idea to polish one of the untagged mirrors. He saw himself blink twice."

I arched an eyebrow. "That's not really new."

"Twice, after he stopped moving."

I didn't laugh.

Still, he grinned. "I know, just stories. Even still, I can't help but wonder why the West Mirrors were closed for two centuries if they were only made of glass."

"Maybe they're not," I answered, glancing up at the closest one, its silk cover billowing softly in the breeze.

He smiled. "Vaerin, be careful. Talking like that transfers you to theology."

I grinned but remained silent. The brass form of the mirror's frame glistened slightly with my reflection. I convinced myself it was only a trick of light. Down here, the lighting continually played tricks. 

By afternoon, the candles had warmed the hall, and the air was thick with dust and wax. It was as if the mirrors were breathing more loudly. I could smell smoke on the parchment I was holding. 

Another day in the Calyra Archives: peaceful, never-ending, and entirely typical. 

Or so it ought to have been.

Because I swear one of the veils had moved by the time I left that evening. Only a small portion. It was as if something had breathed beneath it.