Smoke is curling down the stairwell as I make it to the Transcribers’ floor. The glass doors that should have contained the fire are shattered.
My earpiece hums.
“No, Mnemosyne. Actually.”
“Well thank you very much. I speak for Daedalus now, so get used to it. What’s going on? Have you found Epeius yet?”
I only just arrived. Climbing the stairs was more difficult than I thought and my back is now a living chord of pain.
“The exclusion doors are shattered.” I say instead, blinking away the tears from the smoke.
“He did that? Those things are sheer, anti-shatter—”
I end the useless connection and head through the smashed door. The heat is incredible, gusting in rising torrent whipped by the air sweeping in