The supply office was cold in the early mornings.
Not cold enough to require a fire — Troy's winters were mild, the kind of mild that a man from the northern trade routes would have called simply fresh air and not understood why anyone mentioned it. But the specific cold of a stone room that had been empty all night, the kind that settled into the table and the floor and the stacked tablets along the wall, did not lift until the lamp had been burning for an hour or more.
Lysander had stopped noticing it in his first month.
