The service lift descended not with the clanking of gears, but with the soft, magical hum of a levitation crystal losing its charge.
"We are going deep," Revas whispered, the violet light of his eyes cutting through the gloom of the shaft. "The air tastes stale. Like a tomb that hasn't been opened since the First Age."
"Aris said the Archives were built into the bedrock," Mirabelle replied, checking the charge on the small mana-pistol she had stolen. "Beneath the glass city, there is only stone."
The lift settled with a soft thud. The gate slid open.
They stepped out into a corridor that looked nothing like the gleaming paradise above. The walls were rough-hewn granite, slick with moisture. There were no electric lights here; the hallway was lit by patches of luminescent moss and the faint, pulsing glow of runes etched into the floor—warding scripts designed to keep things in.
"Sector 9," Mirabelle whispered, orienting herself. "The Restricted Wing."
