The street is narrow. The buildings lean toward each other like old confidants, their facades etched with faded runes that no longer glow. Overhead, a gray sky presses down, heavy with the promise of evening rain.

Y/n is walking.

Where Y/n has come from matters less than where Y/n is going. The letter in Y/n's coat pocket is the reason — a sealed envelope, the wax impression bearing the sigil of the Archivists' Guild. It found Y/n three days ago, carried by a bird with copper-feathered wings that waited silently until the letter was taken, then vanished without a sound.

The address is an archive, one of the oldest in the city. A place Y/n has passed a hundred times and never once entered.