Ilyava Surni arrives beneath the Archive temple's rain-dark eaves carrying a narrow cedar case against her ribs, its brass latch polished bright by the constant pressure of her thumb. She is tall and spare, with the stillness of someone accustomed to being watched, yet her movements have a faint, careful softness, as if every doorway might remember her passing. Her hands are the first thing most people notice: broad-palmed, ink-stained, and crosshatched with tiny pale lines from years of repairing paper, thread, and binding wire. The unexpected contradiction is her smile, which is warm, almost domestic, even when she is delivering an accusation precise enough to cut a room in half.