"No improvement? He's still locking himself in the lab…"
The lab lights in Alden's underground wing never turned off anymore.
Not since Zirron died.
They burned white and sleepless behind the thick glass doors, throwing long, sterile beams across the marble corridor where dust gathered untouched. A crowd lingered outside—some vampires pretending to patrol, resistance hybrids pretending to stretch, Sylene pretending to reorganize the same stack of papers for the fifth hour.
Inside, Mavis moved.
Not like a grieving lover.
Like a man building something irreversible.
Beakers trembled over low flames. Silver instruments clinked against porcelain bowls. The scent of crushed herbs and sharp antiseptic curled into the air. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, fox-white ears flattened slightly under the weight of thought. He hadn't slept well. He hadn't left the lab and must have slept inside.
